I’ve found my way into a life surrounded by food people, which often leads to intensely passionate conversations about nonsense: deep-dives on devil’s food cake, monologues on jammy eggs, and proclamations of love addressed to Popeye’s fried chicken sandwich. It was in the midst of one of these riveting discussions that I realized I have opinions—strong ones, and I’d venture to say, correct ones—about nachos. From the chips to the cheese, here's how I believe nachos should be composed and consumed:
Remember, nachos are a finger food: Thin chips will drive you to fork nachos—even worse than forking pizza (looking at you, De Blasio). So find the thicc-est chips money can buy, something with integrity. They’ve got to have a hearty corn taste and be sturdy enough to handle the heft of whatever toppings you throw at (okay, on) them—chicken tinga, bacon-y refried beans, carne asada. (I like the yellow corn tortilla chips by Garden of Eatin’.) And even if you prefer minimal toppings, a thick chip stays crunchy longer.
The addition of hot melt-y cheese transforms a pile of chips (boring) into nachos (fascinating). Queso, homemade or not, is my cheese of choice. It stays saucy even at room temperature, which means I can eat at my typical snail’s pace and still get good nacho vibes. Shredded, broiled cheddar, on the other hand, congeals into a matted web that entraps chips, beans, and salsa well before I've made a dent in the sheet tray.
Some of you are probably on team shredded cheese—and, fine, I get it. The chew and stretch of just-melted cheese, if you’re fast enough to catch it, is one of life’s greatest pleasures. For nachos, it’s best to stick with cheese that’s what I like to call “medium good.” The super fancy cage-aged stuff can’t take the heat and will break into pools of oil if you even look at it the wrong way. On the opposite end of the spectrum is packaged, pre-shredded cheese, which is coated in stuff that prevents it from fully melting. Avoid it. Regular old Jack, Colby and/or cheddar grated by your own bare hands is the only way to go.
A mountain of nachos might look fun—but at what cost?! Only the outermost layer gets topping love, while everything underneath is either naked and dry or sopping wet under the weight of it all.
Nachos, like a California ranch-style home, should never be built more than two layers high. Spread the chips out wide on a rimmed baking sheet, evenly distribute cheese sauce and other hot toppings, like refried beans, then arrange just ONE (I mean it—one!) more layer of chips, cheese, and hot toppings. Save the cold stuff like salsa, guacamole, and sour cream for the end. If that’s not enough nacho for you, make two trays.
If you’re too careful about even topping distribution, dropping sour cream on every chip, your nachos will turn into a big, sloppy mess. I don’t need every chip to have everything on it, but I want something on every chip. Toppings should be placed in little blobs throughout so that you can choose your own nacho adventure at every bite. Sometimes I don’t want a bean and I just want cheese, other times I need a big plop of guacamole. I want to be free to build each chip to satisfy my ever-changing needs. My nachos of choice consist of two layers of chips dressed with queso and are finished with pockets of finely chopped white onion, pinto beans, tomato salsa, cilantro, and sour cream thinned with lime juice.
If you want to level up and get really crazy, warm the chips and the plates to extend the lifespan of your nachos. It's not a requirement, but I will count it towards your overall nacho score.
