An impassioned culinary defence of the hot chip, and a guide to some of the capital’s finest examples.
To some, hot chips are lowbrow. An article about hot chips is lowbrow. To them, chips hold no torch in comparison to more esteemed cultural pursuits.
I disagree. The notion of something being “lowbrow” or “highbrow” comes from the outdated world of phrenology, a pseudoscientific idea in which the lines and measurements of the skull can be used to indicate the qualities and traits of groups of individuals. The high brow to which this refers is supposedly the raised and more prominent skull of Caucasians in comparison to those from other ethnic groups. It is a term that seeks to denigrate and lower the culture of others and raise the artistic pursuits of a chosen race as superior and worthy of exploration.
I feel similarly about the term “fine dining”. It is a phrase that seeks to elevate and place on a pedestal a narrow form of cookery that tends to approach proteins, sauces and garnishes in very similar ways. To say this food is inherently better or superior than any other is false. All culture in the right hands is good culture, and all food in the right hands is good food. The only hierarchy is one that is a mix of intention by the creator and subjectivity in the recipient.
I guess that all of this is to say that I think hot chips are pretty great. In my mind, they are the stuff of essays and operas and other traditionally important endeavours.
This is nothing against the world of fine dining. It is important in its own right, and it plays a vital role in our society. Fine dining operates much in the same way as couture fashion; auteurs innovate and progress our understanding so that we will all get to experience something new in subsequent years. They reframe what we thought we knew and offer us new ways of seeing the world. Because, like it or not, it is important that sometimes chefs get cheffy. Applying countless processes to an ingredient that transforms them beyond recognition while somehow still affirming their fundamental qualities. We get to wonder at the ways in which they can spend months and years refining myriad processes, so the thing you are about to taste is the absolute best version possible.
Take, for example, Heston Blumenthal and his innovation of the triple-cooked chip, first served at The Fat Duck in 1997. He first blanched a potato chip, then fried it at low temp and finished it with a hot fry to create a crisp shell surrounding the fluffy interior. Triple-cooked chips are great, really great. They were an absolute innovation, copied and further built upon by chefs all over the world. I’ve actually been lucky enough to eat at The Fat Duck, and it was fine. However, I can truthfully say that I would rather eat the chips from any of the six Wellington restaurants listed below. For they are truly great.
It is probably traditional at around this point in an article such as this to pose the question: but what is a chip? It is potentially now that I create a pseudo-intellectual set of parameters around what constitutes a chip, maybe define a set of philosophical boundaries around them. But I shan’t be drawn. We all know what chips are. As with all lists such as this, taste and preference are subjective. If you think there are chips other than the ones listed below that are better, then you may well be right. But I’ve eaten more chips than I probably should have over the past couple of months, and as far as I am concerned, these are the best. There is a comment section below if you are so inclined.
Glou Glou
When it opened last year, Glou Glou quickly made a name for itself as that coffee place doing incredible pastries that you couldn’t actually buy. The demand for the aesthetically pleasing patissier far outstripped their ability to supply, and they made the decision to halt production until they could develop a more sustainable model. It was a conscientious move that demonstrated their commitment to excellence and the approach they have now applied to their newly rolled out hot brunch offering, and in particular, their hash brown chips served with homemade brown sauce.
The potatoes are shredded, before being cooked slowly in an amount of butter that some might consider too much – but we don’t need to worry about them. They are then set overnight, cut and deep fried to order. The result is nothing short of spectacular. A shattering exterior gives way to strands of potato, at once gooey yet substantial. Quite the balancing act. All this is then seasoned with shavings of fresh Parmesan, which melts on contact and solidifies, clinging to the already crisp shell as a layer of salt does on a rock drying in the sun. The sauce is sharp with fruit and rich with acidity, the perfect foil to the deeply savoury chip.
I cannot think of a better way to spend a morning, or afternoon, than sitting in that beautifully curated room, letting the comings and goings of Allen Street wash over you. A perfectly crafted coffee on one side, these chips on the other and the pages of your book becoming gently translucent as your hand moves greedily between the two. Truly one of Wellington’s great pleasures.
Margot
Margot is a 28-seater local eatery in Newtown that is quietly one of the most impressive restaurants in Wellington and, indeed, the entire country. What the tiny team is able to accomplish in that room is something quite magical, and with each new dish they put on across the seasons it never fails to reinvent and evolve. The real trick is how simple and approachable every dish seems to be, but how complex and detail-driven head chef Tom Adam is behind the scenes. One thing that has not changed through its two years, and is a perfect example of that commitment to detail and hidden process, is the chips. Oh, the chips.
Here they’re served either as Wellington’s single greatest bar snack, chips with pickled clams, or as the perfect vessel for scooping increasingly greedy mouthfuls of the beef tartare. I think most people dining would think these are kind of high-end, pre-packaged, because what chef in their right mind would make chips every day? Tom Adam would. At Margot, the chips are painstakingly made across the course of two days. Agria potatoes are washed, peeled and hand cut to the perfect thickness on a mandoline – sliced along the length of the potato rather than the width to get that impressive surface area. Then, multiple rinses in cold water to rid them of as much starch as possible and left to soak overnight to draw out any that remains. They are then blanched in batches in salted water and vinegar, the vinegar setting the pectin so they hold in one piece. All this before drying and frying at 150c until perfect.
When presented to you, these chips speak of a deep earthiness as if they have been plucked from the good soil and dusted off. There is an unmistakable salted crunch that plays the perfect folly to sweet pickled clams or fatty tartare. To hold one up to the light is to see the moon appear in front of your eyes, it is to see the remarkable steps taken by Tom and Juno to feed you in the most exceptional way possible.
Alswaida
Alswaida is the brand new shawarma place that has just been opened by Flora and Hasan, better known as the whānau behind Wellington staple Damascus. Their offer seems simple, but the execution and delivery are anything but. Shawarma, falafel and salads are meticulously prepared and speak of an understanding and a deep love for the food of Syria. Chicken is roasted horizontally over an open wood fire, filling the whole space with fat and smoke and all that is good. Flatbreads are made from scratch each day, as is everything else on site – including the chips.
Agria potatoes are hand cut into non-conventional discs across the width of the potato so they resemble their non-hot-chip siblings. The shape is not for mere whimsy; it is how they are served in takeaway shops back home in Syria. The round shape means the chips cook evenly and become the perfect shape to scoop dips. Here, they are blanched in batches and then fried fresh to order, served with a heavy dusting of salt and zaatar before being dolloped with a punchy thum.
The cooking process is where the real beauty of the chips lies. As the potatoes are dropped into the fryer, some clump together, and some float free, meaning the textural contrast is something quite extraordinary. Some are cooked right to a deep, almost bitter, crisp, whilst others remain waxy and fudge-like. It all plays perfectly against the thum that sings of the sweet spice that raw garlic will bring when you are careful and kind to it. If you sit on the benches opposite the serving hatch with a tray of these on your lap, eyes closed and breathing in the savoury air, you could be somewhere totally different.
Plonk
Plonk is the absolute apex of clever chefs doing clever things. They routinely reimagine dishes, ingredients and processes in ways other restaurants simply aren’t doing. But one thing it never is, is superfluous or silly. Every single time head chef Conor McDonald riffs on something and pushes it further, it is because it will demonstrably make it better, make it tastier. For an example of this, look no further than ‘Plonk chips with leek emulsion’.
These chips are the Givenchy spring 2025 collection on the runway at Paris Fashion Week, Alexander McQueen at London. When they arrive, it looks as if they should have been lifted in by some kind of small crane. Their massiveness makes it feel as if there must have been a mistake; perhaps some kind of ray gun has been used to shrink customers down on entry, and it is you who is, in fact, small. Potatoes are cooked in very salty water to season all the way through before they are pressed through a food mill. Potato starch is folded through to add extra crispiness to the final product before the whole mash is pressed and refrigerated overnight. The next day they are cut to size, deep fried at low temperature and cooled right down once more. It is then the final step; once ordered, they are fried at high temperature to create that incredible shell.
These are not just chips; they are uber0potatoes. They are at once the creamiest mashed potato and the most earth-shattering and textured chip. Dusted in a top-secret “tasty salt” and served with an astringent yet luxurious leek emulsion, these are the apex predators of the Wellington chip scene. A T-rex standing tall above all others and another strong contender for the best drinking snack in all of Wellington. Go and eat them, then eat all of the other clever things this team makes and drink all of the incredible drinks they serve. Then, go back and repeat this over and over again.
The Backbencher
One of the most challenging things about relocating to Wellington from London is the lack of pubs. Yes, there are a few spots in Wellington that are calling themselves pubs, and some are getting pretty close. But besides the Welsh Dragon and the Sprig & Fern, The Backbencher is probably the only actual pub doing all the things that pubs should probably do. It has tables at different levels, all facing different directions and in different nooks and crannies. It is predominantly made out of wood, you order everything at the bar, and nobody will blink an eye if you just sit in the corner drinking pints for the best part of an afternoon without ordering food.
It also has chips. Like, proper chips. I think we all have an idea of what a proper chip would be, even if that idea is highly subjective and deeply personal. But the reality we all have to come to terms with is that the correct answer to what a proper chip is, is the ones at The Backbencher. They are unequivocally the direct descendant of Heston’s experiments back at The Fat Duck in the 90s. They are made on-site from scratch, and what is so remarkable is how far the chefs have taken them in the initial blanching stage. It is at this point in the cooking and subsequent drying process that all the fissures and cracks appear in the surface of the chip. The potatoes being allowed to cook all the way through before cooling right down means that when they are fried, that jagged shell we are all looking for forms around the fluffy interior. Hot oil sneaks into the fractured surface and creates depth and texture. In one pot, you will find chips of every size, texture and crispness.
These are an absolute masterclass in chip-making that any pub in any land would be proud to serve.
Saffa Café
When they heard about my attempt to find the best chips in Wellington, friend of the publication Fran Barclay sent me a photo of a piece of A4 paper taped to a window that simply said “Slap Chips”. Although it may seem like a cafe glibly trying to muscle in on the Gen Z dollar with some youth-speak, “slap chips” actually translates directly from Afrikaans as “limp chips”. Less cool and not an immediately appealing adjective with which to describe a chip, but nobody can deny it is certainly an interesting proposition.
As someone who genuinely subscribes to the idea that we sometimes make too much of the importance of balancing texture in a dish, that a soft plate of food can be perfect, off I went. What I hadn’t banked on was that Saffa Café is almost impossible to find. I had the address written down and a clear set of directions, but it still took me three attempts to find the place. Now I know what you’re thinking, but I promise I am not being hyperbolic – on two separate occasions I literally gave up before ultimately landing on the correct spot. But when I did eventually find it, as you eventually will, it was more than worth it. Whatever happens, please do not give up. The important thing will be that you have made it.
This little South African cafe and store opened about a month ago and has two shelves packed with imported goodies and a tiny menu of three different types of vetkoek (a fried dough similar to fry-bread) and slap chips. Potatoes are hand cut into chips of broadly uniform size and shape before being fried in hot vegetable oil. Nothing to see here so far. It is when they are taken out of the fryer, doused in salt and lashings of vinegar, wrapped tightly in paper, and left for a few minutes to steam that they become slap, limp. What emerges are chips that look greasy but are nothing of the kind. They are gooey and vinegary and salty, and all of the great things happen deep in an old-fashioned bag of chips wrapped in newspaper. May I suggest getting a plain vetkoek, tearing it open and making the best chip butty this side of the equator. Ongelooflik.