There are two kinds of potato pancakes at this buffet, one which resembles a latke or a draniki (the national pride of Belarus), the other resembles a thin jeon (the national tradition for rainy days in Korea). The third item in this tray is a brown sauce, probably made with the starch of said fried potatoes mingling with the Sunday night bottom shelf. There are three spoons underneath this tray. I watch each person use the right spoon for the right potato, the right sauce spoon for the sauce, and replace them neatly, even getting embarrassed if there is sauce left on the spoon. Let's just pretend the goat cheese and arugula salad to our right is part of the decor, along with the cheerily set baby tomatoes still on the vine between courses; I'm sure they will feature in a different baked life as part of a pizza. Meanwhile, they langour as the line is long for the schnitzel/donkatsu, placed to the left of the potatoes.
It is my turn at the potatoes, discovering both and all pancakes in presentation are perfectly round; I am astounded by the consistent pi ratio. Which begs the question: why are Kartoffelpuffer generally, universally round? You get the outlier that is McDonald's with their untamed (and questionable potato ratio) ellipses, or a rogue Bramboràk. This is done by heathens, or due to a cost-cutting measure where the answer is not available on the internet, math, or most probably, as signed by a defence attorney.
The imperfect potato made perfect: asteroids (aka rocks) live and die by this principle in space, for the more potato they are, the less likely they will be planets. For the love of science, this is actually called the Potato Radius. Gravity alone will not make you collapse, nor will it kill you. Trying to define and order a potato, actually might. Just ask the girls defined as refugees here, in any language.
And so lies the genius in the potato: just try to fit in, then just let the humans do the work -- "the hardiest thing you can find, cut off the parts that might kill you while not telling the people who are coming to kill you and make them eat it, mash it with whatever tool at hand in general, set it on fire in circles, or just lob it at the other assholes coming to kill you."
Rumour is that this is part of the Irish National Anthem nobody talks about, not unlike that part of the American anthem that nobody remembers the lyrics to, unless you are a professional soprano.
It just so happens that in a different life, I was paid to quack vowels.
Also, the bactaì in Siegen were rather delicious, though I skipped the sauce for decorum.