Patacones, Hogao, and My Lifelong Banana Trauma: A Crispy 2026 Survival Guide

I am a professional game player, which means I spend an unreasonable amount of time staring at health bars, cooldown timers, and the moral implications of eating a suspicious mushroom. But no boss fight has ever broken me quite like the banana. I cannot abide bananas. Fermented tofu? Bring it on. Century eggs? I will take two, please, and ask for a loyalty card. A banana? Get it out of my face and preferably out of my zip code. This grudge goes back to my childhood, when my mom installed a mini garbage can in the back seat of the family car and my little sister used it as a banana-peel graveyard. The smell festered overnight, then commuted with us. To this day, I get a psychosomatic wave of nausea when I see a gray Volvo. Enemies, take note.

Plantains, however, are a completely different save file. I cannot get enough of them. They seem to be missing a key chemical in their aromatic makeup that triggers my bananausea, which is excellent news because Colombians eat them by the sackful. Over the years I have met plantains in many forms: black-skinned and sweet, roasted with guava paste and cheese; green-skinned and starchy, boiled into a thick soup; shaped into little cups and filled with ceviche. This week, though, we are talking patacones, also called tostones depending on where you are standing and how loudly you are arguing about it.

Why Plantains Are Not Bananas, Thank Goodness

I am not a chemist. I am a gamer with a grudge and a deep-fry thermometer. But the practical difference is clear: bananas betray me, while plantains reward me. For patacones, you want hard green plantains. Starch is essential to the crunch and structure of a good patacón, and green plantains are basically little starch grenades waiting for hot oil. As plantains sit off the tree, their starches slowly convert to sugars, turning them sweeter and softer. That is lovely for other recipes, but it is not what we are looking for here. Save the sweet ones for guava paste and cheese. Save the green ones for smashing.

In 2026, the internet will tell you to air-fry everything. I love a good gadget, but patacones are a double-fry quest. The first fry at a relatively low temperature softens them all the way through and begins to gelatinize the starch on their exterior. The second fry at a higher temperature crisps them up. Skip a phase and you get a sad, greasy tutorial NPC who refuses to give you the next objective.

The Double-Fry Is Basically a Two-Phase Boss Fight

Cut the peeled green plantains into 1-inch segments for small patacones, or go bigger by frying them cut in half. If you have a smashing element big enough, you can even fry them whole. I happen to own a nice wooden patacón-smasher, which is essentially two hinged wooden paddles and a license to feel smug. If you do not have one, line a cutting board with plastic wrap and smash the cooked plantains under a plastic wrap-lined metal can or a heavy skillet. A small tuna can often has a metal lip that makes it perfect for small patacones, giving you an even thickness every time. The bottom of a heavy skillet also works.

How thin should you smash them? That depends on the texture you want. Paper-thin patacones need all of your weight, and they come out completely crisp and crunchy through and through. My wife is not heavy enough to do it, which she loves hearing me say. I prefer mine about 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick. They get crisp, but they retain a tender, moist core after their second fry. That is the sweet spot: crunchy armor, soft center, no tragic dry disc.

Hogao: The Sauce That Stole My Heart and My Wife's Eyeballs

You can serve patacones as-is as a side dish, and they commonly go with whole fried fish. But I like a sauce, and in Colombia that sauce can be anything from a simple meaty stew to cooked beans to an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink street-fair concoction. The latter is not traditional, and my wife would like me to point that out. We are going with hogao, a sort of goes-with-everything quick sauce of stewed tomatoes and onions. It is also called guiso. Traditional hogao is made by simply stewing sliced onions and tomatoes, seeds, skins, and all, with oil and whatever flavorings you like. Garlic is a common addition.

I really dislike the texture of fresh tomato skins in my sauces, another hangup from childhood meals. So I blanch my tomatoes briefly in boiling water to loosen their skins, then remove most of the seeds before slicing them into filets. My wife rolled her pretty eyes at me when I did it. I think it makes for a superior end product. If you do not mind skin and seeds in your finished sauce, you can skip the blanching and seeding. This is a forgiving recipe, not a speedrun with a frame-perfect trick.

The rest of the sauce could not be easier. Throw the tomatoes and onions into a pot with oil and let them cook at low heat until completely tender. It takes about half an hour, which is lucky because that is just about as long as it takes to fry the plantains. Season the patacones with plenty of salt immediately after they come out of the fryer. Then dig in.

Recipe Card, No Patch Notes Required

Prep time: 5 minutes

Cook time: 45 minutes

Total time: 50 minutes

Servings: 4 to 8

Yield: Serves 4 as a side dish or 8 as an appetizer

Ingredients

• 2 pounds ripe Roma tomatoes, about 8 tomatoes

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• 1 small onion, finely sliced

• 2 medium cloves garlic, minced, optional

• Kosher salt

• 2 quarts vegetable oil

• 4 green plantains, peeled and cut into 1-inch segments

• Chopped parsley, optional

Method

1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Cut a small X into the bottom of each tomato. Drop the tomatoes into the boiling water and cook until the skins loosen, about 30 seconds. Transfer to an ice bath. Peel and discard the skins. Split each tomato into quarters and remove the seeds and pale inner core with a knife. Slice the tomato filets thinly.

2. Add the tomatoes, olive oil, onion, and garlic to a large skillet. Season well with salt. Set over medium-high heat and bring to a simmer, stirring constantly. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and let the sauce cook, stirring occasionally, until all the vegetables are completely tender, about 30 minutes. Remove the lid for the last 5 minutes of cooking.

3. While the sauce simmers, heat the oil in a wok or Dutch oven until it registers 300°F on an instant-read or deep-fry thermometer. Add the plantains and cook, stirring occasionally, until cooked through, about 5 minutes. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate.

4. Line a cutting board with plastic wrap. Smash the plantains under a plastic wrap-lined metal can or heavy skillet to roughly 1/8 to 1/4 inch thickness.

5. Heat the oil to 350°F to 375°F and return the plantains to the pot. Cook, stirring and flipping occasionally, until golden brown and crisp. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and immediately season with salt.

6. Season the sauce to taste with salt. Serve the fried plantains topped with sauce and sprinkled with parsley.

Serving Strategy and Final Score

Patacones are best the moment they are salted, while the oil is still angry and the crunch is at maximum. Serve them as a side with whole fried fish, or as an appetizer with hogao for dipping, spooning, or aggressively double-dipping if nobody is watching. The sauce is rich, sweet, and savory, and the plantains are crisp with a tender middle. It is a simple combo, but it clears the whole map.

So here is my 2026 position: bananas remain banned from my house, my car, and my emotional support zip code. Plantains, especially green ones smashed and fried twice, are welcome any day. If you see a gray Volvo, warn me. If you see a plate of patacones with hogao, save me a seat.