To further applause, Leon, Alphonse Cipollini, and Idaho Furtles stepped up to the judge’s podium.
“Draw a number,” said Fergus O’Hare, holding out an open potato chip bag.
Alphonse Cipollini drew a plastic chip marked #3. Leon picked #2. Idaho Furtles got #1.
“Looks like you’ll be starting, Idaho,” said Fergus O’Hare.
“Figures,” the Chip Master grumbled before he marched away.
Leon sat down at his card table, laid out his things, and then sneaked a peek at the competition.
Alphonse Cipollini appeared unnaturally calm, his massive hands resting on his stomach like a pair of boiled hams. He gave Leon a friendly good-luck nod, which Leon felt honored to return. He did his best not to stare, but it was tough given the man’s size (not to mention the swimmer’s plug clamped on his nose).
Leon’s other rival presented a very different picture. Idaho Furtles was anything but calm, and he certainly wasn’t friendly. Dressed in his signature lab coat, the Chip Master focused all of his attention on the battery of testing tools arrayed before him.
“Let’s begin,” said Fergus O’Hare. He snapped a rubber glove onto one hand and stepped behind the wooden screen. Leon heard a metal drawer open, followed by the familiar sound of crinkling.
The judge reemerged holding a potato chip in the gloved hand and a stopwatch in the other. He placed the chip in a paper boat and walked it over to Idaho Furtles.
“You have ninety seconds starting … now.”
Idaho Furtles reached for his external caliper gauge and closed its claws against the top and bottom surfaces of the mystery chip. After marking down a measurement, he spun the dial on his digital color wheel until he found a match. He checked the moisture and the odor—the latter obtained by the Nose-It-All 3000—and consulted a binder. Less than a minute after receiving the chip, he was done.
“It is a Wisdom brand Sour Cream ’n’ Chive,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction.
“That is correct,” Fergus O’Hare confirmed, peeling off the rubber glove. He put on a new one and ducked behind the screen. He reappeared soon after with the next mystery chip.
“Here you go, Mr. Zeisel,” said Fergus O’Hare as he docked the paper boat.
Yes! Leon said to himself. A crinkle cut. I can skip the three-coin test and go straight to profile analysis.
He held up the chip and studied the edge. Saw blade, he concluded.
He checked the shape. Amoeba.
He took a nibble and determined the flavor. Plain.
He pored over his charts in search of a plain saw-blade amoeba. He found seven.
He checked the paint samples. Color allowed him to cut the list of suspects to three.
He tested the chew factors and … Bingo!
Only one of the three remaining candidates had the mystery chip’s crumbulosity.
“Howdy Doody Ridglets?” said Leon.
“Correct!” declared Fergus O’Hare.
The audience erupted in cheers. P.W., sitting in the second row, jumped to his feet. “Man oh man!” he hollered. “The Zeisel Method rocks!”
“Shhh!” said Lily-Matisse, embarrassed by the outburst. “Sit back down.”
“Excuse me,” said a man wearing a potato chip-patterned bow tie seated directly behind them. “What, if I might ask, is the Zeisel Method?”
“My friend’s superaccurate chip identification system,” P.W. said over his shoulder. “It’s what’s going to help him obliterate the competition. You watch and see.”
“Oh, I will,” the man said keenly.
Up on stage Fergus O’Hare had already shipped off the next chip.
The Chippopotamus turned the sample around and around in his plump but delicate fingers. “Hmm,” he said in a nasal voice. “The small size suggests an early harvest. And the dark speckling indicates a dangerous foray into sugary hybrids. We’ll see soon enough if those risks were worth taking.”
He removed his nose plug and took a whiff. “A perky, confident aroma of pepper and pears,” he said approvingly, his voice now sounding less whiny. “I have a very good feeling about this chip.”
He took a bite. A moment passed. “I like what I’m tasting,” he said. “This chip is starting off very boldly.”
He took another bite and chewed fussily. “Nice—very nice. A sturdy follow-through with delicious starch highlights.”
He swallowed and smacked his lips. “Pow!” he exclaimed. “What a finish! The gorgeous afterglow could only be the handiwork of one man. Ulf Poppenheimer, the Tubermensch of Tübingen. Mr. O’Hare, I believe you have been kind enough to start me off with a Papa Poppenheimer Pepper Chip. Am I right?”
“You are indeed,” said Fergus O’Hare.
Leon was amazed. So was everyone else in the room. It was instantly obvious why Alphonse Cipollini had won so many competitions. His ability to describe and identify potato chips was, like the man himself, HUGE.
The contest that followed was longer and fiercer than any Chip-Off on record. Each of the competitors was in top form. For nearly an hour, a fleet of chip boats voyaged across the stage. And with each correct answer, the applause of the audience grew louder.
“Zikes!” Alphonse Cipollini exclaimed. “I am surprised at you, Fergus! Is this a potato chip or a poison pill?”
“Contestants are reminded to restrict their remarks to matters of identification,” warned Fergus O’Hare.
“Sorry,” said Alphonse Cipollini. He held up the chip that had triggered the criticism. “With its texture of day-old Band-Aid and its aftertaste of pencil shavings, this can only be an Okee Dokey—and a stale one at that.”
“Correct,” said Fergus O’Hare. “Next.”
“Chipometric analysis indicates this chip to be a Friar Greiermeier’s Golden Fryer.”
“Correct. Next.”
“An Edvard’s Munch Madness chip?”
“Absolutely right, Mr. Zeisel. Next.”
“This chip is a charmer, Fergus. A pleasant follow-up to the Okee Dokey. The color reminds me of Rapunzel’s golden hair, and the deep canola oil aroma, plus the salty grace notes, only compounds the fairy tale qualities. I would be very surprised if this weren’t a Bratwurst Struwweltater.”
“Is that your answer?” asked Fergus O’Hare.
“It is,” said Alphonse Cipollini.
“Correct,” said Fergus O’Hare. “Next.”
“The smell print is a perfect match for Miss Sippy River Chip. That is, therefore, my answer.”
“Correct, Mr. Furtles.”
“Golden Flake Cheeseburger-Flavored Potato Chips?”
“Yes, Leon, good for you.”
After some forty chips had been tested, tasted, and correctly identified, Fergus O’Hare was forced to suspend the competition.
“I’ve been cleaned out,” he said. “The chip cabinet is completely empty! We will have to take a five-minute break while we restock.”
After a stagehand was dispatched to round up more potato chips, Alphonse Cipollini heaved himself off his seats and took a stroll around the stage. “So, Idaho, we meet again,” he said to his lab-coated competitor.
Idaho Furtles harrumphed.
“I see you’ve lost none of your conversational skills,” said Alphonse Cipollini.
“Do you mind?” said Idaho Furtles.
Alphonse Cipollini lumbered over to Leon. “I would just like to say, you are a most formidable opponent. I am honored to compete against you.”
“Thanks,” said Leon.
The stagehand returned carrying a very large box. Fergus O’Hare whisked him behind his screen and shortly thereafter asked everyone to sit back down. “I believe it is your turn, Idaho,” he said, quickly docking a newly provisioned chip ship.
After a minute or so, Idaho Furtles started muttering to himself. It was clear he was having a tough time identifying the chip.
Leon could pick up parts of the babble: “… moisture content point-oh-one-nine … digital col
or wheel reading three-one-seven … thickness point-oh-six-one … texturometer … smell print…”
Idaho Furtles eventually looked up. “I believe you have given me a Cousin Ray’s Low-Fat Kosher Dill Pickle Delight,” he said unsteadily.
Bing!
A wave of gasps spread through the audience.
“That is not correct,” said Fergus O’Hare.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” said Idaho Furtles. “I said Cousin Ray’s Low-Fat Kosher Dill Pickle Delight.”
“I heard you perfectly,” said Fergus O’Hare. “That is not the chip I gave you.”
“But the chip has to be a Cousin Ray’s Low-Fat Kosher Dill Pickle Delight. My Nose-It-All 3000 smelled it! My digital color wheel matched it. My external caliper gauge measured it!”
“To repeat,” Fergus O’Hare said firmly, “it is not a Cousin Ray’s.”
Idaho Furtles banged his fist on the table. Only then did he notice that the snout on his electronic nose had fallen off. He quickly replaced it with a spare.
“Mr. O’Hare, I had an equipment failure. I require another chip and another chance.”
“Sorry, Idaho. You know the rules. Second guesses are not allowed.”
“I protest!”
“Hey, Furtles! Didn’t you hear the judge?” P.W. yelled from his seat. “NO DO-OVERS!”
“Quiet in the audience,” Fergus O’Hare admonished before turning back to Idaho Furtles. “Please sit down and allow the competition to continue.”
Idaho Furtles refused. He stormed off the stage in a huff, only to return a moment later to reclaim his tools and storm off in an even greater huff.
That left Alphonse Cipollini and Leon.
Fergus O’Hare allowed the room to settle down and presented Leon with a chip from the same bag that had stumped Idaho Furtles.
No way, Leon said to himself. It can’t be.
Despite a strong hunch, he performed the coin test and flipped through the paint chips. He found a perfect color match: jolly good fellow yellow.
“Ohmygosh!” he said out loud, before laughter overtook him.
“Leon?” said Fergus O’Hare. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Leon replied, struggling to suppress the giggles. Even though he had a positive ID, he double-checked his data by analyzing the chew factors. He took a nibble. The crumbulosity was exactly what he’d expected. Likewise, the mouthfeel and lingertaste.
Leon now knew he had it nailed.
“The contestant will please identify the chip,” said Fergus O’Hare.
Leon shook his head in disbelief. “Furtles,” he said. “The chip is a Furtles Double Cruncher.”
“Correct,” said Fergus O’Hare.
Everyone suddenly understood the reason for Leon’s behavior. Furtles had been stumped by a Furtles!
An explosion of guffaws (the most powerful of which came from Alphonse Cipollini) filled the auditorium.
Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Fergus O’Hare banged on the elimination bell to bring the crowd to order. “Could everyone quiet down! The Chip-Off is already running late.”
Once calm returned, the chip boats again traveled from cabinet to podium and from podium to table. Only now, of course, there were just two ports of call.
“A delectable dry-rub style offering from the Billy Bob line of barbeque chips.”
“Correct.”
“Wall Street Blue Chips?”
“Correct.”
“This chip, with its chestnut color and robust crunch, must be a Saul T. Sam’s Sweet Russet Gourmet.”
“Correct.”
“Gondola Chips?”
“Correct.”
“Ahhh! The ruffled texture and shipshape citrus highlights tell me I have just received a Wavy Navy Sub Lime Chip.”
“Correct.”
The testing continued until Fergus O’Hare was forced to call yet another time-out. “I have used up all the chip boats and testing gloves,” he announced apologetically before sending a stagehand scrambling.
This time, however, the problem was resolved less successfully. The stagehand returned with a tube of paper drinking cups and a box of ordinary dish gloves.
“I doubt these substitutions will meet the approval of the governing board,” said Fergus O’Hare. He placed an emergency call to the headquarters of the All-State Potato Chip Association. Following lengthy deliberations, the ASPCA directors okayed the cups and gloves, and the contest resumed.
Four chips after the second interruption, Leon received a sample that caught him off guard. It was blistered and hand-sliced, which allowed him to eliminate most of the chips in his notebook. Yet when he checked the color of the sample against the paint chips, he failed to find a match.
With color resisting the Method, Leon turned his attention to the chip’s chew factors. There, too, the sample proved confounding. Its crumbulosity, mouthfeel, and lingertaste were unlike any he had recorded.
Leon closed his notebook and made a mental list of all the chips he had heard of but never had tasted.
There weren’t many.
Then Leon realized the obvious. Since Fergus O’Hare had received all the recent chips from the convention floor, it only made sense that the killer chip had come from one of the display booths in the hall. Leon pulled out the floor plan, zipped through the list of exhibitors, and quickly determined that the chip in his hand must be one of the two brands that had eluded capture.
It’s either a Rhode Island Monk Chip, he told himself. Or it’s a Tierra del Fuego.
Leon grabbed the testing dime and placed it on his thumbnail.
Heads Tierra del Fuego, tails Rhode Island, he said to himself.
He gave the dime a flick. It spun in the air, hit the table, and clattered out of reach.
Not a good sign, Leon thought.
“Time,” said Fergus O’Hare.
Leon quickly repeated the gesture with his nickel.
Heads Tierra del Fuego, tails Rhode Island.
This time he caught the coin in midair and slapped it flat on his arm.
Everyone sat on the edge of his seat—except for Alphonse Cipollini, who sat on the edge of two seats.
Leon squinched and clucked.
“Time,” Fergus O’Hare repeated. He reached for the bell just as Leon lifted his hand.
The nickel had landed faceup.
“Tierra del Fuego!” Leon blurted out.
A long moment separated his response from the judge’s.
Correct is what Leon wanted to hear. If he didn’t hear that word that would mean …
Bing.
Groans of disappointment spread through the auditorium.
“I am so sorry,” said Fergus O’Hare. “That is not the right answer.”
Still, the competition was not over. To clinch the title, Alphonse Cipollini had to identify the chip that had stumped Leon.
Fergus O’Hare delivered a fresh sample to Alphonse Cipollini, who turned it over in his hands like a jeweler inspecting a gem.
“The thickness tells me at once that it is hand sliced,” he said, “and the blistering suggests a commitment to the higher cooking temperatures.” He removed his nose plug and inhaled deeply. “Hmm. Italian grape-seed oil. A first pressing, if I’m not mistaken.” He took a swig of water and gargled, a procedure he hadn’t found necessary during previous tastings.
After gargling, Alphonse Cipollini took a small bite out of the chip. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully, pausing for a long while before taking another deliberate bite.
“Give up?” P.W. shouted hopefully.
Fergus O’Hare tapped his microphone. “Quiet, please!”
Alphonse Cipollini closed his eyes and tilted his head back. All at once a smile spread over his face. “It took me a while,” he said as he leaned forward in his chairs, “but I think I have a match. Could the sample in question be a hand-sliced, kettle-cooked chip, bagged by an order of clerics living in a monastery outside Little Compton, Rhode Island, and sold under
the Monk Chips label?”
Leon hoped—with all his might he hoped—to hear the bing! of the elimination bell. But he knew, deep down, no bing! would sound.
“Correct,” Fergus O’Hare was obliged to say. “We have a winner. A round of applause for Alphonse Cipollini on his sixth ASPCA Chip-Off victory.”
Suddenly a number of things happened all at once, and none of them involved Leon. Alphonse Cipollini let out a fittingly hippopotamic bellow of joy. The giant ASPCA seal hanging overhead exploded, showering the auditorium with potato chip confetti. And a television reporter wearing a yellow flak jacket jumped up onstage and planted himself directly in front of Leon’s table.
“Yell-ow everybody!” the reporter intoned. “This is Thomas ‘Spud’ McSorley of the Chipping News, bringing you live exclusive coverage from the stage of the convention center, where Alphonse Cipollini—alias the Chippopotamus—has just devoured Idaho Furtles and newcomer Leon Zeisel to gobble up his sixth ASPCA-sponsored Chip-Off victory. In a ferocious feat of two-fisted feasting, the Lance Armstrong of the potato chip world displayed Herculean stamina by—”
Leon tuned out.
No thousand bucks, he said to himself.
No vintage army jacket.
No swap.
No transfusion for Fathead.
No payback.
No hope of surviving Lumpkin.
Fergus O’Hare approached the runner-up. “Tough luck, kid. I thought you had him beat.”
“I might have, if I’d gotten hold of some Monk Chips before the competition.”
“Well, if the ASPCA can ever be of assistance, you be sure to let me know,” said Fergus O’Hare.
“I will,” said Leon. His friends rushed over.
“You did great!” said Lily-Matisse.
“Yeah, right,” Leon said glumly.
“You did,” said P.W. “Think about Furtles. He messed up on a Furtles chip! How lame is that?”
“Not as lame as coming in second,” Leon said dejectedly. “We needed that prize money.”
“Hey, we’ve already got one hundred and two dollars and fifty cents,” said Lily-Matisse. “We’re almost there.”
“Lily-Matisse is right,” said P.W. “I figure we’ll have the remaining fifty-seven forty-nine in three weeks and three days—give or take.”
Leon and the Champion Chip Page 16
