"Limited edition", "pub grub" and "roast beef & horseradish" are all things worth getting excited about when you see them on a packet of crisps. Especially McCoy's crisps - those purveyors of some of the finest in fried potato experiments, both traditional staples (i know of salt & vinegar fans who will only indulge if it's McCoys on offer) and modern classics (do you know anyone who doesn't like their magnificent Thai Sweet Chicken?).
I'm an old fan of roast beef and horseradish in crisp format, but have always felt let down by similar offerings ever since Brannigans (the former undisputed king of said flavour) opted to ditch their papery packets in favour of the more current plastic ones. Ever since then, Brannigans' strengths in the field of both crisp texture (thick and firm) and flavour (hot nasal smears) have seemingly waned. Were Brannigans the snack equivalent of Samson, then their vital locks were the papery packets they chose to shed (and all in the name of fashion, I ask you).
Excitement builds then as I open the packet of McCoys - is this a new champion in this much-admired flavour category..?
The simple answer: no. alas, these crisps do no possess the texture nor rush of intense powdery flavour that the Brannigans of old once boasted. Upon opening the packet, the aroma that greets one's senses first is not one of rich oxo-like beef nor indeed the ominous tang of dessicated horseradish...but instead: salt and vinegar. Yes, salt and vinegar. That's what they smell like. HOW?! How have McCoys managed this? A second nose-in delivers a slightly different take, but still neither beef nor horseradish is prominent - on this second sniff, we are taken back to the world of Walkers and their gran-pleasing "Roast Chicken" flavour. WTFZ??
Not feeling confident, I select my first crisp and scoff. the texture is unmistakably McCoys - firm ridged frites holding up well in the mouth for several chews, decent thickness and a satsifying munch. The flavour, though - where is it?!
There is, I am sad to report, very little flavour. The beef element is shy at best: like a friend's wary young child meeting you for the first time, this beefy toddler has chosen to hide behind its parent's legs, occasionally peeking at you but always steering clear of giving you a full greeting or - perish the thought - a nice savoury hug. Instead, we are left with horseradish and i'm afraid that this too is neither prominent enough in the mix, nor as hot and vicious as it should be on its own, to be considered one of the two "flavours" promised on the (garish, but you expect that with McCoys) packet.
Instead, you're left with the mild taste of oxo, plenty of salt, and the occasional waft of horseradish warmth. The latter is weak to the point of almost being non-descript; i'd wager that if you carried out a blind-tasting on this crisp, many would guess at mustard. How sad.
So, this particular jar of excitement now has its lid carefully replaced, and is returned back onto the shelving unit that is my many hopes and dreams. One day, perhaps there will be a fried potato snack producer who rises to this challenge once again, and maybe - just maybe - someone will create something that if not eclipses, at least takes us back to the fine days of the Brannigans dominance.
4/10.
