Next he grouped weather and time yellows: high noon, low sunrise, sun ray, sun spot, sun shower, sunshine, summer sunrise, sunny summer, summer solstice.
He stacked up a pile of golds: Venetian gold, Sutter’s gold, nugget gold, yellow gold, fool’s gold, Burmese gold, golden pond, golden fleece, mission gold, and golden fable.
He assembled a pile of yellows related to food and cooking: country kitchen yellow, dish glove yellow, cornmeal, corncake, butternut, curry spice, wildflower honey, citrus splash, mustard yellow, French mustard yellow, lemon sorbet, lemon soufflé, lemon drop, lemonade, pineapple soda, and Jell-O yellow.
He caged all the animal yellows: honey bird, canary, chickadee, goldfinch, cheetah, lion’s pelt, cat’s eye, and goldfish.
He created a small atlas of place name yellows: African yellow, Indian yellow, Sumatran gold, Ceylonese gold, Sierra Madre, Panama beach, Jamaican dream, and yellow brick road.
Finally there were all those paint chips that resisted classification (and that served as a handy way to group them): straw hat, yellow submarine, kayak yellow, torch, ho-hum yellow, hello yellow, mellow yellow, and jolly good fellow yellow.
The only yellow Leon failed to find among the Adler’s color samples was potato chip yellow.
That’s nuts! he told himself. Potato chip yellow is probably the best-known yellow in the whole universe, except for (maybe) the sun. But as soon as Leon started trying to match edible chips to the paint chips on his bedspread, he understood why no color sample borrowed the name of the world’s favorite snack food. There were too many different shades of potato chip. In fact, no two brands had exactly the same color. And that single fact was the key to Leon’s potato chip/color chip comparison chart.
He lined all the paint samples face up on the rug and compared them to chips in his stockpile. Each time he found a perfect match, he would glue the paint chip into his notebook and write down the name of its potato chip partner.
There were some surprisingly logical matches. Byrd brand chips matched canary yellow. Island brand chips matched Jamaican dream. But there were also pairs that didn’t make sense. Wisdom chips matched fool’s gold, and Furtles Double Crunchers corresponded to jolly good fellow yellow.
The paint company must not know Idaho Furtles, Leon said to himself.
After working through all the yellow potato chips, Leon took a break and went to feed the piranhas in 302. Then it was straight back to work, analyzing non-yellow brands. Incan treasure, a Peruvian chip Maria provided, matched a purple paint called plum. Miss Sippy River chips, a barbequed product from the South, paired perfectly with a paint called plantation brick. All in all, Leon ended up matching paint samples to ninety-eight brands of potato chip.
With color taken care of, Leon took a mental inventory. Thickness?… Check. Shape?… Check. Color?… Check. Sound?
Sound came next. Leon figured if bird-watchers could tell a robin from a wren by their chirps, he might be able to distinguish different brands of chip crunches. That was the idea, anyway. Leon picked up a Furtles Double Cruncher, shut his eyes, bit down, and listened.
Then, quick as he could, he grabbed a Wisdom chip and repeated the procedure.
The two brands sounded pretty much the same.
He tried again.
The second trial was no better.
After a few minutes of careful crunching, Leon felt soundly defeated and gave up. Only one item remained on his mental checklist—the one Idaho Furtles dismissed as useless and unscientific: taste.
Basic flavor distinctions were a snap for Leon. He had no trouble telling a barbeque chip from, say, a salt ’n’ vinegar. But as Furtles had proven during the factory tour, distinguishing different brands of the same flavor was a whole lot tougher.
It took some doing, but Leon ultimately isolated three distinctive “chew factors” to help him tell apart similarly seasoned chips produced by different companies.
First of all, there was the way the chip broke apart at the start of munching. Second, there was the texture of the chip during munching. And third, there was the sensation that remained after the chip had been swallowed. Leon called these three factors: Crumbulosity, Mouthfeel, and Lingertaste.
For the better part of a Sunday, he refined his three-point guide to chew factors. When he was done, he flipped through his notebook. A full weekend’s worth of research and writing had produced more than forty pages of chip analysis, an achievement that almost allowed Leon to forget why he had conducted his research.
Almost, but not quite.
TWENTY-SEVEN
.500
Leon was more than chipper at the start of the next coffee shop training session. “Let’s get crack-in’!” he said, building the menu wall while Lily-Matisse and P.W. selected some test samples.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said P.W.
“Ready?” asked Lily-Matisse.
“Go for it,” said Leon.
She passed a chip over the menu wall. Leon inspected the specimen. Non-crinkle. Midway between a penny and a dime. He checked his notebook. There were twenty-seven chips in that range.
He turned to the color chart. The chip almost matched sunshine, but Leon knew better than to treat a near-match as a positive ID. Nevertheless, he was able to scratch ten chips off the candidate list.
“Well?” said P.W. impatiently.
“Don’t rush him,” said Lily-Matisse.
Leon took a nibble. Onion. He flipped through his notes some more. Onion narrowed the suspects to just six. He took another nibble, evaluated the chew factors, and again checked his data.
“I have it down to two,” he said at last. “It’s either a Wisdom Onion or a Furtles Onion.”
“Not bad,” said P.W. “It’s a Wisdom.”
“Ach, Leon!” exclaimed Frau Haffenreffer. “How can you do that?” She had been watching the analysis from behind the pastry case.
“Dichotomous classification,” said P.W.
“We learned it in science,” Lily-Matisse added.
Frau Haffenreffer shook her head in amazement. “This your mama must see.” She bustled out to the lobby.
The testing resumed. Lily-Matisse handed Leon another potato chip, and another, and another, and another. After five trials P.W. announced the results. “Two out of five, Leon. That means you’re batting four hundred!”
“That’s not good enough,” said Leon.
Just then Frau Haffenreffer returned, with Emma Zeisel and Maria in tow.
“I see we have an audience,” said P.W. “Ready to show off your stuff, Leon?”
“Sure,” said Leon.
Lily-Matisse presented a chip and, as he had five times before, Leon flipped through his logbook. He measured the thickness, checked the profile, and took a quick nibble. “Willie Winkle Krinkle Cut,” he said.
“What flavor?” said Lily-Matisse.
“Cheddar, of course.”
“That’s a roger!” P.W. exclaimed, reaching over the menu wall to give Leon a high five.
“Way to go, Leonito!” cried Maria.
“Wow, sweetie, you sure bagged that one fast!” said Emma Zeisel.
“Ja,” said Frau Haffenreffer. “All hail the kartoffel chip king!”
“It wasn’t that tough,” said Leon. “Shark tooths are a cinch to ID.”
“Three for six,” said P.W. “That brings your average to five hundred!”
“How much of the Chip-Off will be taste testing?” Emma Zeisel asked.
“Half,” said Leon. “First there’s a trivia round, then the taste tests.”
“Leon will ace the trivia part for sure,” P.W. said. “He probably knows more about chips than anyone alive.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Emma Zeisel. “From what Leon tells me, that Furtles fellow is one tough competitor.”
“Your mother’s right, Leonito,” Maria said. “You better study real hard.”
“But how can our little stinker study about chips?” asked Frau Haffenreffer.<
br />
The three women suddenly started giggling.
“Okay,” said Leon. “What’s up? What am I missing here?”
“Only this, sweetie.” Emma Zeisel plunked a hefty package on the tabletop.
“A present?” said Leon.
“Ja,” said Frau Haffenreffer.
“Sí,” said Maria.
“Yes, sweetie,” said Emma Zeisel.
The gift was wrapped in kraft paper and tied with the red string Frau Haffenreffer used to secure her pastry boxes. Leon dug into his pocket, pulled out the nifty knife ring he’d received for his tenth birthday, and cut through the wrapping.
“Holy guacamole!” said P.W.
“Sheesh!” said Lily-Matisse.
Leon read the cover out loud: “The Official Potato Chip Encyclopedia by Fergus O’Hare, Executive Director, All-State Potato Chip Association … This is amazing! I’ve heard about this book, but I’ve never seen it.” He flipped to the back. “It’s seven hundred and eighty-three pages long! And check out this index! It goes from Abalone Chips all the way to … Zarathustra Über Tubers!”
Leon gave each of the three women a hug. “Thanks! This must have cost a bundle.”
“Don’t worry, Leonito,” said Maria.
“Ja, we all of us pitched in,” said Frau Haffenreffer.
“We were going to wait until your birthday, but we figured you could use it for the Chip-Off,” said Emma Zeisel.
“With this book, Leon, you’ll be even more unstoppable,” P.W. predicted.
“I hope you’re right,” said Lily-Matisse.
“Of course P.W.’s right,” said Emma Zeisel. “It’s in the bag.”
Two weeks remained until Chipapalooza! During that time, Leon went to school, did his homework, practiced the flute, and tended to chores. But his mind focused on one thing and one thing only—potato chips.
He ate chips. He studied chips. He dreamed chips. He lived chips. He heard the sound of crunching everywhere. His eye was drawn to each and every chip bag that littered the city streets. When he wasn’t refining the Zeisel Method, he was poring over the Encyclopedia. He crammed his brain with thousands of new facts relating to deep-fried tubers. The first potato chip. The biggest potato chip. The smallest potato chip. The biggest bag. The smallest bag. The most potato chips eaten in a single sitting. And with each passing day, his knowledge and self-assurance increased.
But all that changed one week before the big event.
Leon called P.W. with some grim news. “We’ve got problems,” he said.
“What kind of problems?”
“I’m not going to win,” Leon said gravely.
“What do you mean? You’ve got a batting average that’s better than Babe Ruth’s.”
“Potato chips aren’t baseball,” said Leon.
“I only meant that—”
Leon cut him off. “Will you just listen for a sec!” He read a passage from the Encyclopedia into the phone:
“The highlight of Chipapalooza! is the Chip-Off, a battle of ‘trivia and taste’ that tests chip experts on their knowledge of the world’s most popular snack food. Previous winners have included Idaho ‘The Chip Master’ Furtles and Alphonse ‘The Chippopotamus’ Cipollini.”
“Yeah? So?” said P.W. “We always knew Furtles was a hotshot. I still say you can take him.”
“It’s not Furtles that worries me,” said Leon. “It’s the other guy—Cipollini. He has his own entry. Listen to this.” Leon flipped to the relevant page and again read a key passage into the phone:
“Cipollini, Alphonse (1946–). Editor, Field Guide to North American Potato Chips (fourth edition). Five-time winner of the ASPCA Chip-Off competition. Known in snack circles as ‘The Chippopotamus,’ Mr. Cipollini [pronounced chip-oh-lee-nee] also holds the record for the most consecutive chip identifications, having correctly named twelve in a row during his first year of competition.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said P.W. “That was then, this is now.”
“I don’t have a chance,” said Leon.
“Look, if he had rookie’s luck, why shouldn’t you?”
“Even if—”
“No ifs, ands, or buts,” said P.W. “You’ve got to stay positive. Remember what your mom said?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Leon. “It’s in the bag.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
A Glitch
The big day finally arrived.
The competition was set to take place at noon. At nine that morning, Leon greeted his support crew in the hotel coffee shop, where Frau Haffenreffer was already handing out dough balls.
“Okay, one more, Frau H.,” P.W. agreed, his mouth rimmed with powdered sugar.
“Not for me,” said Lily-Matisse, her lips similarly coated.
Frau Haffenreffer knew better than to tempt Leon. “I know, I know,” she said irritably. “You’re in training.”
“Sorry,” said Leon. “It’s been crazy. We must have thirty potato chip sales reps checked in. My taste buds are wiped out!”
Emma Zeisel and Maria both stopped by the coffee shop to wish Leon good luck.
“I’ll try to make it over to the competition, sweetie, but it’s going to be tough. There’s a pair of koalas arriving any moment.”
“Leonito doesn’t need our help,” said Maria. “I lit two candles on Sunday and bought an Axomama prayer card.”
“What’s Axomama?” asked Lily-Matisse.
“Not what,” said Leon. “Who. She’s the South American goddess of potatoes.”
P.W. looked at his watch. “T minus two hours and forty-nine minutes to Chip-Off. We’d better head over.”
“Holy mackerel!” P.W. yelled as they passed under a giant yellow banner that said FEAST WITHOUT FEAR.
“That’s the motto of the ASPCA,” Leon explained.
“Can’t argue with that, can you?” said P.W.
“Nope,” said Leon. “Time to be fearless.” They pushed through the crowds and into an exhibition hall packed with booths promoting potato chips and potato chip-related products.
“Listen!” said P.W. “Have you ever heard so much crinkling and crunching?”
“And what about the smell!” said Lily-Matisse. “It’s even more potato-chippy than the Furtles assembly line!”
“Yeah, only here, they give away free samples!” said P.W., reaching for a chip. He stopped in mid-munch. “Guys,” he said abruptly. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” said Leon.
“That wocka-wocka-wocka,” said P.W. He dragged Lily-Matisse and Leon past a display of bagging machines to an electronic game called Snackman.
While P.W. tested the game, which required the Snackman to gobble his way through a maze of potato chips, Leon looked around the nearby booths.
He returned in panic before P.W. had finished playing.
“Let go of that joystick!” said Leon.
“What’s the matter?” Lily-Matisse asked.
“I’ll tell you what the matter is. I’ve seen at least three brands of potato chip I never knew about—and that means there must be others. What if the Chip-Off includes samples I haven’t tested?”
P.W. released the joystick and looked at his watch. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “We’ve got time.” He ran over to an information booth and returned with some pamphlets. “Floor plans,” he said. “I got one for each of us. They give the names and locations of all the chip makers in the hall.” He handed a pamphlet to Leon. “Mark the brands you need to analyze.”
Leon pulled a pencil from his backpack and scanned the list. The ground level of the convention center housed booths promoting American chips. The balcony was reserved for the international exhibitors.
“What’s the count?” P.W. asked when Leon was done.
“Twelve Americans,” said Leon. “Plus sixteen internationals. Here, take a look.” He handed the pamphlet to P.W., who studied it like a four-star general preparing an invasion.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do,�
�� P.W. said. “Lily-Matisse, you cover aisles one through five. I’ll handle six through ten. That’ll take care of the U.S. targets. Leon—think you can deal with the rest of the world?”
Leon took a long look at the balcony. “I’ll give it a shot,” he said.
“You’ll do fine,” P.W. reassured him. “We’ll regroup at oh-ten-thirty in front of the information booth, then head back to the hotel. That’ll give Leon a solid hour for chip analysis.”
“Hold on,” said Lily-Matisse. “How are we going to carry all the samples?”
“I know,” Leon said almost at once. He dashed over to a trash can, yanked out the plastic liner, and looked inside. He waved Lily-Matisse and P.W. over. They arrived to find him pulling out three fresh garbage bags.
“How’d you know they’d be in there?” P.W. asked.
“Don’t you remember the old housekeeping trick?” said Leon. “Maria always stashes spares in the bottom of the can.”
With their garbage bags and floor plans, the three chip hunters darted off to their assigned sections of the exhibit hall.
Leon nabbed the first item on his checklist—Gondola Chips from Venice—in under a minute. The second and third items (from England and France) were also a snap to snag. The only European sample that proved elusive was the Struwweltater, a bratwurst-flavored Kartoffel chip popular in Germany. Leon eventually hunted down a sample from a slovenly man with long fingernails and uncombed hair.
Leon took a nibble. Not bad, he said to himself.
With Europe checked off his list, Leon turned to Asia, where he nabbed squid, seaweed, and tofu chips in quick succession. But the collection process slowed to an irritating crawl at a booth promising Zen Chips. To get a sample, Leon had to listen to a man in a black robe recite a poem:
“One potato chip
Happy inside my tummy.
Is that not enough?”
Leon and the Champion Chip Page 14