If mankind were to be destroyed tomorrow with just enough time to preserve one important facet of the human experience to be discovered by whatever descendants survive the impending calamity and almost certain death, the Americas’ vote would go to the potatoe, more specifically, the fried potatoe. Yes, the U.S.A. and Mexico would finally agree on something, Chile and Brazil would finally find a word that translated in both languages, and Nicaragua, Belize, and El Salvador would gladly salute the same flag of the potatoe, as our gift to future races.

It is, after all, an American tradition, and one of the greatest achievements the continents have to offer. The potatoe began in the new world, cultivated in South America over 7,000 years ago as a tuber with innumerable qualities not limited to: tastiness, healing properties, ease of growth, and resistance to spoilage. In fact, the world’s first mashed potatoe, Incan chuñu, could last in a cellar for ten years without ill effects. And that was without riboflavin and hydrogenated oils and canning facilities. So you can imagine why the Spanish conquistadors were so eager to bring so many on board their sailing vessels. The Spanish certainly didn’t have to worry about getting bored with something as versatile as a potatoe: when they grew weary of mashing and boiling the starches, they prepared a potatoe gratin or a jacket potatoe. Indeed ways of cooking the potatoe are just as old as the root itself, but none so famous as the french fried potatoe.

Known under many aliases, the fried potatoe may be a purely American invention, but it is a delicacy enjoyed worldwide. In America we eat them with Ketchup, in England with lemon, in France with vinegar, in Australia with chicken salt, in Canada with tomatoe sauce, in Korea with mayonnaise, in Malaysia with fish sauce. They are served in bars, diners, cafés, railway stations, carnival stalls, beach fronts, taco trucks, four star restaurants, cafeterias, and home kichens. And their shapes are not limited to the mere stick, but our humble potatoe can appear as a curly ribbon, a shoestring, a wedge, crinkle cut, waffled, double fried, or even as stubby little tater tots. But just because the fried potatoe has many faces and many family members does not mean it has many names. Make no mistake, the chips so beloved by the English are not the same as the french fries on the menu at McDonald’s. And I, a confirmed globetrotter and connoisseur of the potatoe (need I remind you I am of Irish blood), will help you navigate the world of the fried potatoe by explaining away the differences between pomme frite and papa frito.

We’ll start with the most obvious inconsistency in potatoe nomenclature. It’s the Americans versus everyone else in the English-speaking world. We think sticks of fried potatoe should be called french fries while everybody else claims they’re called chips. Well, I’ve seen both sides of the arguments, and even gone so far as to engage in the debate myself, before realising that they’re both right, because they’re talking about two different things. Unlike aubergine and eggplant or napkin and serviette chips and french fries are two entirely different versions of the french fried potatoe, not, as would be believed, different names for the same thing.

This is the french fry, as the Americans have come to know it. This is what you’ll find in a Wendy’s, a Whataburger, an In-n-out (depending on your region). It is crispy on the outside, it is covered in salt, and it is a thin strip of goodness that doesn’t harbour many remnants of potatoe inside of it. And it’s usually shoved along with so many others into a cardboard box or bag into a car. That is the french fry.

This is the chip, as the British/Australians/Canadians have come to know it. This is what you’ll find in a pub, a chip shop, or a salt shack down the road. It is a thick slab of potatoe that’s a bit soggy on the outside but still discernibly potatoe, then dumped into an open paper trough and passed over a counter. And it’s usually the bed for a strip or two of beer-battered fish universally accepted by mums, kids, and disgruntled grandfathers alike. That is the chip.

So now you can sleep easily knowing that you’ve got the right of it, whichever country you come from. That is, until the debate over American chips and English crisps (which actually ARE the same thing) begins. But instead of delving into that fryer of hot oil, we move on to pomme frites.

Those of us not schooled in Quebec invariably find it difficult to order in a French restaurant; the menu, while appearing to be in English, uses an array of French words which have no English culinary translation. Words like chiffonade, julienne and hors d’overs have always been French, but then there are dishes like ratatouille, boullibasse, and cassoulette garnished with condiments such as remoulade, aioli and paté that appear on the page, with accent marks that stealthily sully your menu into another language entirely while you’re listening to your waiter rattle off the other haute specials (you’re pretty sure he used ç several times), and though you nod, you’re at a loss to understand what’s actually IN any of them. So, you play it cool, and you kindly ask the nearest bus boy what exactly is such-and-such, and how is this prepared, and if that contains fish. After you ask a few questions, he’ll grow impatient, and when you, as politely and coyly as possible, inquire as to what pomme frites is he’ll give you a look that clearly indicates how much of an imbecile he thinks you are.

[throat clearing noise of contempt] “Hollandaise is a milk sauce similar to a béchemel sauce, madamoiselle.”

“Ah. And it says the steak comes with…”

“Hari coverts and pomme frites, monsieur.”

“Erm…”

[more condescending throat clearing] “Green beans and french fries.”

“Ah,” you say, relieved at something you can at last recognise. But, while in your head you are picturing a New York Strip with steakfries (or chips, if you’re on the other side of the Greenwich meridian), what’s on your plate come mealtime is more like a sculpture sprinkled with a crossbreed of funyuns and pickup sticks. These my friend, are pomme frites.

While chips and fries have some striking differences, they are more or less brothers in the world of the fried potatoe. They retain the same basic spirit. Not so with the pomme frite, which is less like a french fry and more like a rogue onion ring. It is even thinner than the American french fry, sometimes even as small as a shredded string of the stuff flash fried, thoroughly dried, very lightly salted, and doused in white vinegar. It is usually served in a wax paper cone at a bar or on top of a cut of red meat like a wig meant to soak up sauce red with either blood or wine. That is the pomme frite.

Last but not least, we come to the final culprit of the deep-fried potatoe debate: the potatoe wedge. In America this little guy is just another version of the french fry, just another shape to add to the pantheon of crinkle-cut, thick-cut, and waffle-cut, but to the rest of the world, the potatoe wedge isn’t just a shape. It’s a completely different breed of cat. In any roadside dive along Route 66 you have the simple choice: regular fries or chili cheese fries? This is something completely unheard of to the rest of the world. To them, the question is: french fries or potatoe wedges? A new concept to you? Let me explain the difference.

This is the potatoe wedge, a triangular version of it’s square predecessors with one definitively round side. It is thick and hearty and still reeks of potatoe, it is not salted, though it is often peppered, and it is always twice-fried, giving it a darker and more textured exterior. It is served piping hot on a plate with an assortment of dipping sauces as an appetizer to be shared, and it is always eaten alone. That is the potatoe wedge.

And then of course there is the home fry vs. hash brown debate, the sweet potatoe vs. yam battle, and the latke vs. galette war, as well as the numerous disagreements between potatoe variations (bubble and squeak or bangers and mash?). However we choose to impart the wisdom of the fried potatoe on our proteges, it will not be just for taste. The wonder of that tiny mass of nutrients (which, when paired with milk provide all the essentials) goes beyond colour, shape, and name to a realm where we can rest assured the potatoe will not be soon forgotten. Long live the potatoe.