№ 001
Russet Burbank
var. Solanum tuberosum 'Burbank'
The dependable workhorse. Long, oblong, and freckled with russet skin, she is the undisputed monarch of the baked potato and the french fry. Fluffy of flesh, generous of yield.
Solanum tuberosum — the common potato — is, by any honest measure, the most undersung hero of the human pantry. She asks little of the soil, much less of the cook, and rewards both with a generosity bordering on the absurd. From the cold terraces of the Andes to the wet fields of County Cork, she has fed empires, ended famines, started a few, and quietly made herself indispensable to roughly half the world's dinner tables.
This almanac is a small love letter to her: a catalogue of varieties, a primer on her preparation, and a gentle reminder that the most extraordinary things often arrive caked in dirt and looking like a rock.
A select catalogue of cultivars, drawn from kitchen and field, each with her own particular merits.
The dependable workhorse. Long, oblong, and freckled with russet skin, she is the undisputed monarch of the baked potato and the french fry. Fluffy of flesh, generous of yield.
Buttery before butter touches her, the Yukon Gold is the most diplomatic of potatoes — equally at home mashed, roasted, boiled, or smothered in cream. Flesh the colour of sunlight on barn wood.
A Frenchwoman through and through. Small, waxy, oval, and deeply self-possessed; she holds her shape under any duress, making her the queen of the potato salad and the gratin dauphinois.
The pride of the Low Countries, and the very soul of the Belgian frite. Pale yellow, slightly floury, magnificently versatile — she is what stands between you and an inferior chip. Treasure her.
An eccentric. Inky-purple from skin to core, she stains the cutting board, the pot, and one's expectations. Nutty, dense, and theatrical — she earns her place at any table that values a little drama.
A fine old British gentleman in a slightly blushing skin. Floury and forgiving, he roasts to a crackling perfection and mashes into a cloud. Named, with admirable cheek, after a sitting monarch.
No potato achieves her destiny alone. Here, then, a brief catalogue of her most faithful companion — Allium cepa, the layered diplomat.
The everyday workhorse of the kitchen. Sharp when raw, almost candy-sweet when caramelised, she is the foundation upon which most stocks, soffrittos, and sensible suppers are built.
A flamboyant Tuscan in burgundy robes. Milder than her yellow cousin and considerably more decorative — pickled, sliced raw over a salad, or scattered atop a tart, she insists on being seen.
The grey shallot — wild-tasting, papery, and refined. The French regard her as an entirely separate civilisation from the onion. She sweetens butter, befriends red wine, and asks only to be sliced finely.
Flat as a button, sweet as a confession. The cipollini wants only to be braised whole in vinegar and sugar until glossy and yielding — the agrodolce that makes a cold roast worth eating again.
Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep. — Carl Sandburg
Five fundamental treatments, by which the potato is best persuaded to reveal her many talents.
Place in cold, well-salted water; bring slowly to the simmer. A small potato wants fifteen minutes; a larger, twenty-five. Test with a knife — it should slip in like a friendly secret.
Parboil for eight minutes, then roughen the edges in the colander. Toss in hot fat (goose, if you can; olive, if you must) and roast at 220°C until crackling. Salt only after.
Boil whole and unpeeled. Drain, peel while hot — yes, your hands will protest — pass through a ricer, fold in warmed milk and an unreasonable quantity of butter. Never use a blender. Never.
Twice. The first frying at 150°C is to cook her through; the second at 180°C is to crown her in gold. Drain on paper. Salt at once. Eat with mayonnaise. Do not argue.
Prick the skin, rub with salt and oil, and bake at 200°C for an hour or thereabouts. Split, season, fill — with sour cream, with chives, with whatever the larder offers. A complete meal in a coat.
What I say is that, if a man really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow. — A. A. Milne