In Search of the Lost Crisp

Plain, salted crisps. You simply can’t find them. Not in a proper large bag anyway. You can find them in those six-packs of mini packets, each one wrapped like it’s carrying state secrets, which is handy if you’re planning a crisp-themed expedition and need to leave trail markers, but less handy if you just want - you know - crisps.

Walk into any supermarket and it’s a riot of flavours. Prawn cocktail. Chilli something. “Sour cream and black peppercorn with a hint of smugness”. Cheese and onion still hanging on like an old pub regular. There’s probably one now that tastes of “Sunday roast” or “Thai street food” or “Grandma’s disappointment”. But plain salted? The crisp equivalent of a white shirt? Apparently too boring for modern life.

I don’t want whisky drizzle. I don’t want truffle essence, harvested from the tears of an Italian count. I don’t want a crisp that’s been “crafted” or “curated” or “inspired by”. I want potato, oil, salt, and a bag large enough to get you through a film without having to open six separate packets like you’re doing a shift at a crisp-distribution centre.

And the packaging waste is the best bit. One decent large bag would do the job. Instead, you get six small ones, each with its own glossy branding, its own seam, its own crinkle, its own contribution to the plastic apocalypse. Somewhere, a product manager is congratulating themselves for “portion control” while the bin fills up with enough empty wrappers to upholster a Fiesta.

Retail logic says “plain” doesn’t sell. It doesn’t signal personality. It doesn’t suggest you’re an adventurous eater. It just sits there being crisps. Which is precisely the point. Salted crisps are the control group of snacking. They’re the baseline. They’re the thing you eat when you want a crisp, not an edible press release.

Every so often you do spot a large bag of plain salted, tucked away on a bottom shelf behind “Flame Grilled Peri Peri Chicken” and “Mature Cheddar and Vintage Port Reduction”. It’s like finding a sensible person at a party. You grab it quickly, check nobody saw you, and head to the till before someone offers you “limited edition” something with lime.

This is not nostalgia. It’s not being difficult. It’s basic practicality. Less waste, less nonsense, more crisps. A big bag of plain salted crisps should not feel like a rare artefact from a better civilisation, like Roman concrete or a government that can run a railway.

Anyway, I’ll be in the corner with my six tiny packets, opening them one by one, making a small mountain of plastic, and wondering which part of this was meant to be an improvement.