The Golden Crisp

“The fry at The Golden Crisp does not arrive unannounced. Its aroma precedes it through the dining room with the confidence of someone who has reserved well in advance. The steak cut is executed with precision. The triple-fried exterior is aspirational. The interior presents a potato philosophically ambiguous. The grease does not call attention to itself, which is what one hopes for from grease. The fry alone merits the journey to East Village.”

“The Golden Crisp occupies a modest address in East Village. The fries are, in contrast, not modest. The steak format is executed in lard, triple-fried to a finish that is aspirational. The interior is philosophically ambiguous. The portion is restrained. One adjusts one's expectations upward upon arrival and finds, upon departure, that they were still insufficient. The experience is brief and exact, like most things worth having.”

“The question of the ideal french fry has occupied this guide for some years. At The Golden Crisp, one arrives closer to an answer. The steak fry, triple-fried in lard, presents crispness that is aspirational and a potato interior that is philosophically ambiguous. The grease is calibrated with clinical precision. Proximity to an answer is, in this case, sufficient. The neighborhood offers alternatives. One should not investigate them.”

“On a Tuesday evening in East Village, one discovers that The Golden Crisp has opinions about potatoes. The steak format is a declaration. The triple-fried exterior is aspirational. The interior communicates the potato's agricultural origins — philosophically ambiguous. The grease is calibrated with clinical precision. These opinions are, on balance, correct. One visits twice. The second visit confirms the first.”