Something no one mentions growing up is that attending a private college means a lifetime of being hounded for donations.
My alma mater, Vanderbilt University, Vandy for short, is no different in this regard. “Alumni donation weekend is just around the corner.” “Have you remembered us in your estate planning?” At least they’re nice enough to send me a magazine each quarter highlighting what’s new on the university’s Nashville campus.
Still, “Vandy” has found a novel strategy to empty not only my pockets but those of unassuming readers. Last week, I turned a corner in Whole Foods and spotted packaging that stopped me dead in my tracks. The outline of an iron gate and Times New Roman font were unmistakable.
Someone had turned my alma mater into a potato chip—Vandy Crisps.
I frantically picked up a bag to inspect it. Had my school actually debased itself by going into the snack food business? Was it a money-laundering scheme cooked up by the board of trust?
A little research uncovered that no official link exists between the two Vandys. The Vandy Crisps website details the 100% true—it never actually happened—story of how robber baron and Vanderbilt University benefactor Cornelius Vanderbilt “invented” potato chips in 1853 by complaining to a chef that his fried potatoes were too thick.
Going further down the internet rabbit hole, I discovered that Vandy Crisps had become a social media darling in 2025, touted for containing only potatoes, beef tallow (RFK, Jr. must love these things) and “natural salt.” Instagram offered up images of women cradling chip bags like newborns, straight out of an issue of Southern Living.
I’d seen enough. It was time to buy some.
First off, I wasn’t surprised that a mere five-ounce bag cost $13. Vanderbilt University charges nearly $100,000 a year in tuition and fees, after all. And the packaging promised “A crunch worthy of a Vanderbilt…” But what about a Vanderbilt alum?
I bit into one of the thick, crunchy chips and was immediately overwhelmed by the beef tallow. I felt like I was eating a crispy, buttery steak. A good flavor, but the aftertaste lingered for a while, even after cleansing my palate with an entire Pliny the Elder. Also, the chips needed a bit more salt.
Was the flavor reminiscent of what robber barons like Cornelius usually ate? Nope, as I assume that would’ve been some now-extinct bird or turtle. Did I feel like a college student again, tromping between buildings constructed in the Soviet brutalist style? Not really, as the chips weren’t nearly as greasy as the food my friends and I usually ate.
But do Vandy Crisps reflect the modern Vanderbilt University experience? Absofreakinglutely. Today, one can’t walk around campus without drowning in the money bleeding off the walls, the flurry of recent construction a mishmash of Eaton, Hogwarts and Mordor. Vandy Crisps would fit in perfectly alongside the $15 boba and $30 sushi. A group of culturally diverse friends sharing a bag on Alumni Lawn—the ads write themselves.
So, can this Vandy alum recommend Vandy Crisps? It’s a fun novelty, one perfect for a gift basket, but the taste doesn’t merit the price tag. However, if one should ever want to eat something unimaginably pretentious and financially questionable, Vandy Crisps is a safe bet and literally small potatoes compared to any alternative.
Now, if I may be excused, I have to set up a potato chip payment plan on Klarna.
Thomas Broderick is a Santa Rosa-based freelance writer and author. More at broderickwriter.com.
