A preface: I am from the Pacific Northwest, born and raised. An increasingly difficult thing to find, as most folks in the area are here seeking better lands to enjoy, as refugees from modest places in the Midwest or the East Coast, and horrible places like California. We enjoy only a few culturally native dishes, the things provided to settlers by the native tribes, who showed these weird, wagon-driving motherfuckers what to do now that they’d arrived.
The natives introduced to the palates of the wagon fools the tastes of salmon, mussels, scallops, shrimp, elk, and other larger game animals. Before agriculture was established on a large scale, there were still various plants and delightful things to satisfy the tastes of the newcomers, who had never seen such provender.
Naturally, the settlers had their own dishes and hybridized those things the tribes had taught them with things they found comforting from the homes they’d left to strike out for fortune in the Oregon Territory. Assuredly, this is how we got oyster shots. I don’t have authoritative proof on that one, but only people who rode on a wagon from the Midwest would be like, "Hey, what if we took this slimy thing and sucked it down raw with some sauce?"
While the older flavors of the land were eventually supplanted by more modern foods, as the logistics train got set up, and people started cultivating industrial fisheries, and salmon boats, and...clam guns? Well, we settled into the more modern pattern of existence. People built roads and avenues for commerce, stopped doing subsistence agriculture and fishing, and set into a network of associated industries that served the people who moved, in increasing numbers, to the Oregon Territory. In a decade or so, people had established cities, towns, and burgeoning industry. Much of that industry wasn’t foundries or mills, though timber, of course, was an important part of the growth of Oregon. No, it was fishers, hunters, farmers, and people using the rich, natural fauna of the land to sustain the people who had come to live there.
This is all well and good, though arguments rage to this day on the role of settlers and their displacement of peoples, treatment of those who had come before, and the nature of the settlers’ role in the co-opting of fishing or farming techniques, and the subsequent fallout. However, one thing is clear: with the pioneers came the hearty tuber we call the potato, spud, tater, or Irish rose.
What I’m about to discuss in this has nothing to do with age-old struggles, or settlers, or natives, or anything of the sort. One may have those discussions, and indeed, they’re worthy of consideration, but for now, we’ll focus on a more contemporary but humble matter—the jojo.
I was brought to this topic because I had said to a colleague, "You know, sometimes, all we want is to sit back in our chair after work and eat fried chicken and jojos for dinner."
I was met with "the fuck are jojos?"
To which I replied, "well, they’re seasoned, battered potato wedges."
"Oh, potato wedges. Yeah, those are good."
"But they’re not just potato wedges. Most potato wedges, which exist everywhere, are merely seasoned and fried."
"What’s the difference?"
"Jojos are battered and then fried."
"Whatever..."
But we of the jojo way know the difference. Oh, we know.
Many of us who live here consider the jojo as a staple food of the lunch variety, and many of us regard the experience of eating a chicken and jojo lunch as kids (chicken and jojo day was a staple in the public elementary school I went to, and nobody missed that day) being a fundamental experience growing up in the Pacific Northwest. Typically, they are served with ranch dressing for that creamy fried potato experience.
But where did the jojo come from? Why is it unique to Oregon, Washington, and even NorCal?
Well, ya boy did some digging. Buckle up.
First thing, Oregon abundantly calls battered, fried potato wedges "jojos" more than any other state, by a margin of like 60%. Not sure who was out conducting this jojo survey, but damn, that’s one of those jobs you think about when you’re a little kid. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "I wanna be the fucker who asks people what they call fried potato wedges. Betta axe somebody."
While the origin of the term has led to many small diners or restaurants claiming to have invented it, I’ve tracked the jojo to a more singular source. Those fuckers can fight it out and claim to own the jojo name, but put up or shut up and have giant fried wedges in my hand, which best be good... And you better have handmade ranch before your claim shall be considered.
The story starts back in the mid-20th century, as many ridiculous food trends do. There was actually just one man who propagated the humble jojo into the cultural lexicon of the Northwest. This man was a salesman named Paul Nicewonger, and while "Nicewonger" sounds like a synonym for "cock," he was ostensibly a pretty nice wonger.
You see, Mr. Nicewonger traveled the Northwest, selling pressure fryers—a new invention at the time, starting in the 1950s.
He went about the land and pitched pressure fryers, which are a cross between a pressure cooker and a deep fryer, and sold them to many, many locations in Oregon, Washington, and even Northern California. It was a technological marvel for the culinary scene at the time. It allowed dishes to be cooked and fried in minutes while still staying (in the case of meat such as fried chicken) juicy and delicious. It was a big hit, and businesses all over bought them.
However, Mr. Nicewonger included with each sale, a few recipe cards, including one for JoJo Potatoes. They were seasoned, battered potato wedges, of course, and were ostensibly named after his wife, whom he affectionately called "JoJo." At a point, we merely started calling them jojos, though when this happened has been lost to history.
The idea was that when you fried chicken in the pressure fryers he sold, you’d toss these potato wedges in there, which had also been chicken-battered, much like someone who starts a fight in a KFC. The concept of frying battered potato wedges in with the chicken was pretty much a value-added service. "Yo, we have your drumsticks ready; would you like some jojos as well?" "The fuck are those?" "They’re giant chicken-fried potatoes." "I am physically incapable of saying no to this." For reference, cooking something in a pressure fryer is called "broasting." Not sure why, as that sounds like one ought to be simultaneously broiling and roasting, but what can ya do about it? Most modern jojos are merely deep-fried, as pressure fryers are less common these days.
As mentioned, the jojo is not to be confused with a "potato wedge," which is merely seasoned and fried but not battered. People argue this as a sticking point, given that there are a million ways various places prepare their spuds, and the hotly contested debate shall continue to rage anywhere fried potatoes and alcohol are served.
The best jojos are served not in classy or profound establishments but rather ghetto ones, such as truck stops, gas stations, convenience stores, or Safeway after midnight.
For those who might wish to prepare gas station-style jojos in the comfort of your own home, I have you covered. This recipe has come from many hours of diligent research.
Gas Station Jojos
The batter:
1 cup of flour
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp celery salt, or Old Bay™ if you got that
1 tsp onion powder
1 tsp seasoning salt, like Morton’s™ or some shit
Mix that shit up.
Taters:
Cut two fat Russets into jojo form (about 4-6 wedges per spud)
Soak ‘em in cold water for 20 mins to make ’em extra crispy.
Eggs?
Yeah, eggs. 2 eggs. Jojos are washed in egg and then breaded.
For that gas station appeal, go get a half-pint of cheap whiskey.
Yes, whiskey. The cheapest you can find. Preferably something that has a cowboy on it.
Dump a 1/2 cup of that terrible whiskey into the eggs, which you need to beat like they owe you money. Drink the rest, if you dare.
Roll them tater wedges in the egg-whiskey mix.
Once they are thoroughly egg’d, roll ‘em in the flour mix. Then, dredge them in egg again, and roll ’em in flour again!
The cooking:
There are a few methods to cook jojos.
The most authentic for gas station-style is deep-frying, as pressure fryers are hard to come by if you’re not a proper restaurant, and even then, they’re not as widespread as when Nicewonger was doing his thing.
Fill a saucepan with a few inches of peanut oil and heat it up until such time as when you toss a drop of water in it, it goes apeshit and bubbles and hisses. Toss ’em in for about ten mins; try to keep ’em moving, so they don’t stick to the pan.
You can bake them, too. Grease up a cookie sheet, and 400F for 20 mins, then turn ‘em over and bake for another 20.
Air fryer people can get fucked...but 15 mins at 400F should do it.
Gas station secret: turn your oven on the lowest setting possible. Wrap your cooked jojos in foil and leave them in there for several hours. At least 5, but as much as a week, to simulate that gas station heat lamp.
Serve with ranch, in true Northwest style, or BBQ/mustard/etc. if you don’t dig ranch. However, I believe it is considered a cultural taboo to serve them with ketchup, so don’t let anyone see you.
Oh, and if you’re making it with chicken, fry the chicken at the same time. That is The Way™.
So concludes the tale of how jojos became an institution, and often one we don’t realize is unique.
Enjoy life and taters.
-Wombstretcha
Wombstretcha the Magnificent is a ranch enthusiast, pressured fryer, nice wonger, writer, and retired rapper from Portland, Oregon. He can be found at Wombstretcha.com, on Twitter as @Wombstretcha503 and on Facebook (boo!) and MeWe (yay!) as "Wombstretcha The Magniflcent."
