It’s a strange time for members of the Irish diaspora around the world. As a pandemic spreads across the globe, many young people are heading into quarantine or self-isolation without knowing when they will next be able to visit their families back home in Ireland. Stuck in other countries (or perhaps still at home and yet unable to see elderly or vulnerable loved ones), our focus is on self-care and comfort. And what, after all, is more comforting, and more iconically Irish, than the humble crisp? The Tayto crisp, to be exact.

Originally founded in 1954 by Joe Murphy, Tayto crisps have gone from a simple snack to an icon of Irish identity. The humble bag of Tayto—of which the most iconic flavour is undoubtedly Cheese & Onion—is nothing less than cultural phenomenon.

In its home country, 500 bags of Tayto are sold every minute. Inspired by the Irish rural metonym for crisps ( po-tayto), the company has its own theme park, Meath’s Tayto Park, which opened in 2010, and a lifesize snazzily dressed mascot, Mr Tayto, who is essentially a giant crisp in a red jacket.

Mr Tayto in particular is central to the myth of Tayto in Ireland. He’s frequently seen in marketing campaigns for the crisps (one notable advert featured noughties pop icons Westlife) and even released his own autobiography, 2009’s The Man Inside The Jacket, of which I own a copy. He features heavily in the marketing at Tayto Park, Ireland’s sixth most popular tourist attraction—and its only theme park—which attracts 750,000 visitors a year. The park contains a number of attractions that read like something out of 90s comedy Father Ted: Ireland’s only wooden rollercoaster, an exotic zoo and a “Native American village.” In the Irish General Election of 2007, Tayto crisps ran Mr Tayto as a fake candidate, resulting in a number of spoiled papers in the Carlow-Kilkenny constituency when people actually voted for their mascot.

But why is Tayto such a cultural institution? It is, after all, just a crisp. Partly it’s down to the intense pride Irish people have, both at home and abroad, in championing quintessentially “Irish” goods and products, particularly when we can ship these around the world. The company’s website, for instance, boasts that “Tayto is iconic at home in Ireland but Tayto has also been providing a taste of home to many of the Irish diaspora for many years.” In fact, Tayto as a marker of identity rather than what it actually is (a crispy delicious potato), is central to the brand’s own identity. Their current slogan, “more than just a crisp,” sums up the mentality perfectly. Put simply, Tayto are a bright, easily recognisable Irish product which, thanks to its ubiquitous nature at home, fills Irish people around the world with nostalgia and homesickness.

“I get really happy when I see Tayto in a shop over here,” says Laura, who lives in London but comes from an Irish family. “And when I lived abroad I missed them in a way I never missed like, Walkers.” In the US and further abroad Taytos are hard to procure, but in London a strong diaspora community means that you can find them in certain places, including many Irish pubs. The London Irish Centre’s An Siopa, for instance, is on the site of the charity’s Camden based community centre, but is mocked up to look like a corner shop in a small Irish town. And the Supermarket giant Morrisons has a dedicated Irish section in their world food aisles, with many shelves dedicated to none other than Tayto. “Maybe this is too deep,” Laura adds, “but a lot of the time I feel like English and Irish culture can blend, but when it comes to food, especially something like Tayto, you’re like ‘oh no wait, Irishness is different and special! Yes, crisps are culture. I said it.”

It makes sense that food is so central to identity for the diaspora, and of course, it’s a phenomenon not specific to the Irish. Much of the food you can buy in any city around the world exists to the masses thanks to immigration, as traditions of cooking and eating have travelled with the diaspora. The Irish may pale in comparison to the rest of those delicious diaspora offerings—we are yet to contribute anything as good as curry, baklava, sushi, pizza or ackee and codfish to the world—but we do hold the dubious honour of being the only nationality to champion as their national dish a half-man half-crisp in a suit.

If you want to portray Irishness in pop culture in 2020 Tayto, and Mr Tayto in particular, is more potent imagery than a tricolour or a leprechaun ever was (and you know, not as stereotypical or offensive). “It’s one of them ever-present things growing up, isn’t it?” says @PrayforPatrick, an artist and self-styled “Ireland’s leading influencer.” “Like, when we got crisps when we were younger it was never ‘crisps’, it was ‘do you want some Tayto?’” One of Patrick’s early prints portrays both southern and northern Mr Tayto embracing, a carb-based call for Irish unity. “Also,” he adds. “It’s a theme park based around a guy who makes crisps. Mad.”

The duality of Tayto, of course, is also intrinsic to its reputation in the Irish collective consciousness. The Irish border, not content in being a thorn in the side of Boris Johnson’s Brexit negotiation, also complicates Ireland’s snack industries. Because just as there are (debatably) two Irelands, so too are there two Tayto crisp companies and two Mr Taytos.

Tayto crisps manufactured in the Republic of Ireland are a completely separate brand to those in the North. Northern Tayto has “slightly toned down” recipes, leading to many a Nordie kid pining for a Dublin bag of Cheese and Onion while they were growing up. Nordie Mr Tayto, unlike his southern counterpart, does not have his own theme park and while both wear red suits, the Mr Tayto from up north lacks yellow striped trousers and has a more detailed cartoon face. Even his head shape is different—Mr Tayto (South) is portlier and more cartoon-like than his grinning Northern rival. In some border regions of Ireland, notably Country Donegal, you can get both types of Tayto. The Tayto issue even became a flashpoint during recent political discussions on the backstop. At the time Prime Minister Boris Johnson said: “The idea that Tayto crisps from Tandragee are going to be vetted by some process is just nonsense.” None of this is made up.

It might seem farcical, but this too makes Tayto so quintessential to the Irish experience and to the nation’s identity. Without getting in too deep (things are grim enough out there as it is) Ireland’s politics is frequently farcical, and the fact that even our crisp mascots need to be separated by a border is fitting. James Ashe, a Belfast based artist, lampooned the dual Taytos in a piece called “Hands Across the Divide.” Featuring both Mr Taytos embracing, the pastiche of Derry’s “Hands Across the Divide” statue, installed at the end of The Troubles, was, James explains, “a visual commentary on Brexit, peace in Northern Ireland, the Irish border, and our beloved potato snack mascots.”

“There’s always a debate online or in pubs which Tayto is the best one, the classic ‘Free Statyo V. Mr Nordie Tayto’,” James explains. “Coincidentally, around the same time I was finishing up the artwork, there was a news story that broke out of Co. Down man being brought up in court for selling Free State Tayto in pubs across NI. It’s something that belongs on the Derry Girls’ chalkboard—‘Protestants eat Tandragee Tayto, Catholics eat Free Statyo’.”

For those outside Ireland and not a member of the diaspora, it’s perhaps hard to understand why a crisp can become such a symbol. How can one thing (a sliced and fried potato) mean so many things to so many people? How can it be worth risking arrest for smuggling, and also inspire a theme park, and also spark political discussion? Many times, I have been shocked and appalled to source Tayto crisps in London and feed them to English friends who shrug and proclaim “it’s just a crisp.”

“It probably all comes down to nostalgia,” James offers. “Everyone in Ireland has been to the Tayto factory on a school visit, or maybe they were a small child in a pub on a family holiday who was given a packet of cheese and onion and a glass bottle of coke.” Those are the memories we cherish as we grow up and fan out into the world, and it’s that feeling of comfort and familiarity that we hold on to even if we can’t physically be in Ireland with our loved ones. That feeling is so potent it goes some way to explaining the strange cult of the Tayto(s). But also, it’s just a really tasty packet of crisps.

*Mr Tayto 1 election poster (Flickr/jaqian, under Creative Commons 2.o); The Cú Chulainn Coaster in Tayto Park, Ireland (Wikimedia/KillianfromTaytoPark); Northern Irish Tayto delivery van (Albert Bridge, under Creative Commons 2.o); Mr Tayto parade photos (both Flickr/William Murphy, under Creative Commons 2.0)