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24th December 2024
09:21am GMT
Forget the turkey. Forget the ham, forget the stuffing, the sprouts, the gravy, and all the other overblown theatrics of Christmas dinner. They’re distractions—sideshows. The main event, the only event that truly matters, is the croquette. Croquettes are not just the best part of Christmas dinner. Croquettes are Christmas dinner.
The king of all sides. Croquettes are the ultimate carb triple-threat: everything you love about bread, chips, and mashed potatoes rolled into one crispy golden parcel of joy. Irish people never get these wrong. They’re comforting, decadent, and weirdly posh despite being essentially fancy mashed spuds.
Let me make this abundantly clear: if you’re not serving croquettes, you’re doing it wrong. Full stop. No arguments. No polite debates over which dish deserves the crown. This isn’t a democracy. It’s a potato dictatorship, and the croquette is its undisputed ruler.
These crispy golden parcels of pure joy are a transcendent experience, even from frozen. They are the alpha and omega of carbs. When you bite into a croquette, the world slows down. The crunch of the breadcrumb coating gives way to the soft, buttery mash inside, and for one glorious moment, nothing else matters. Not the chaos of Christmas. Not your family’s unsolicited opinions. Just you and the croquette, locked in a moment of perfect bliss.
Croquettes don’t ask for much, but they give you everything. They’re deceptively simple—just potato, butter, flour, egg, breadcrumbs, salt, and pepper—but what they lack in complexity, they make up for in pure, unadulterated comfort. They’re not flashy. They don’t need to be. They're an icons, they're legends, and they are the moment.
And yet, they’re also strangely luxurious. They have this inexplicable air of elegance. Maybe it’s the crispness of the breadcrumbs. Maybe it's the luxury that a well-buttered mash always brings to the table. Personally, I think it's the way they stand proudly on the plate, refusing to collapse into the gravy-soaked mess. Croquettes are a class act.
Their true genius lies in their versatility. They’re a sponge for the soul of your Christmas dinner. That last bite of croquette, soaked in gravy, dotted with salty ham bits, tinged with red cabbage, and studded with crumbs of stuffing, is the single most perfect bite of the entire meal. It’s the crescendo, the finale, the grand unifying theory of Christmas dinner, all rolled into one potato-packed parcel.
And yet, despite their undeniable perfection, croquettes are scandalously absent from most restaurant Christmas menus. Every year, I scan the festive offerings, hoping—praying—for even a whisper of their golden glory, only to be greeted by endless parades of roast potatoes, plain mash, and, God help us, sweet potato fries. Where are the croquettes? Why are they always overlooked, left behind like a forgotten stocking at the bottom of the stairs?
Even in Dublin, where we pride ourselves on elevating the humble spud to high art, the croquette gets snubbed. Restaurants will trot out every other tired cliché—cranberry this, chestnut that—but somehow miss the one side that could elevate their Christmas dinners from nom to transcendent. It’s maddening. We’re not asking for the moon here. Just a crispy, crunchy, potato-filled trimming. Surely, in this day and age, croquettes deserve their rightful place at the table.
Making croquettes is not a chore; it’s a ritual. Peeling and boiling the spuds. Mashing them with just the right amount of butter. Rolling them into those plump little cylinders. Coating them lovingly in flour, egg, and breadcrumbs. Deep-frying them to golden perfection. It’s messy, sure. Your hands will be covered in goo, your kitchen will look like a breadcrumb bomb went off, and you’ll probably burn yourself at least once. But that’s the price you pay for greatness.
Deep frying is non-negotiable. Don’t you dare bake them? So don’t come at me with your ‘the air fryer is just as good’. This time, it’s not. I don’t care if you’re on some misguided health kick (on Christmas Day) or trying to cut corners because your oven’s already crammed with everything else. Croquettes are not here to compromise. They deserve the hot, bubbling embrace of oil. Only then will they achieve their full, crispy potential.
And let’s be clear: croquettes are not an afterthought. They are the centrepiece, the star, the reason everyone comes to the table. If anything, the turkey and ham should be working to support them.
Honour the croquette. Treat it with the respect it deserves. The croquette isn’t just the best part of Christmas dinner—it’s the reason we bother with the whole damn production. It’s Christmas itself, wrapped in breadcrumbs and fried to golden perfection. Long live the croquette.
