Saturday, February 6, 2010

My French Fries

We were eating dinner Friday evening at the Sharp Edge in Crafton. It’s a wonderful place with excellent food and excellent beer. We’re there way too often. Their fries are great, a little thicker than a quarter of an inch, but less than a half. Hand-cut. After eating my sandwich, I had arranged all of the fries in the pile into loose parallels. Ate a bunch, mostly the little burnt bits and unusually shaped ones. Once I had reduced the pile to a manageable volume of relatively uniform quality, I lined them up in ascending lengths, like a xylophone. At this point, it’s easy to cut the fries with your fork, and spear them two or three at a time. It also makes them easy to dip in ketchup. It’s a neat, clean, efficient, and ultimately superior way to eat them. Employing a different method of French fry consumption is a clear indication of hopeless insanity and/or communist political convictions. This was the stage at which I had arrived when the waitress walked by to ask if we needed anything else. She saw my tight, straight lineup of parallel fries, all evenly cut with a fork, and said, “Aww, that’s cute! You’ve made a little sidewalk!” I laughed politely, embarrassed, and my wife burst out laughing and said, “That’s what you get!”

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