“A French-Fried Fiasco,” by Mary Catherine Owen

Nov 20th, 2007 | By | Category: Prose

“I am so sick of French fries,” she suddenly remarked, and I looked up from my menu in surprise. “I mean, honestly, why have they become the be-all, end-all of restaurant side dishes? There’s nothing remarkable about them, unless they’re crinkle-cut, or curly, or topped with cheese and chili or something, and even then, they’re not that great. But of course, most restaurants don’t serve the interesting permutations of fries anyway, do they? It’s bland and greasy or nothing. And if you want some other form of potato, like a baked potato, they charge you $1.99 more! What the hell is that about? It probably took more than one potato to make the fries anyway, so what are they making us pay extra money for? The sour cream and chives that I don’t want? The extra trouble to microwave one damn potato? If I was a restaurant owner, I’d probably be raking in the dough with my underhanded potato earnings alone.”

She paused, and I opened my mouth to make a pacifying comment. However, it appeared that the discussion wasn’t quite over, as I had hoped. “Maybe fries would be more appealing to me if they came with some fabulous dipping sauce, instead of ketchup. People in this country can’t get enough ketchup – it’s on their eggs, their chicken, their filet mignon. Tomato farmers will continue living charmed lives as long as Americans keep pouring ketchup on everything edible put in front of them. You never see any ads on TV for ketchup, because its popularity needs no boosting. If French fries were abolished, then they might have to make ketchup commercials, but that’s never going to happen as long as restaurants continue to cram these starchy crapsticks down our throats with every meal!”

Her tirade ended with an aggravated huff and a quick turn of the menu page to avoid prolonged viewing of the platters that had no doubt prompted the outburst.

“You know,” I tentatively began, “You can substitute a house salad for the French fries.”

She looked at me with a withering glare and said, “Don’t even get me started on house salads.”

And that is how, not wishing to set off another lengthy commentary on the inadequacies of cheeseburgers or the overexposure of colas in the marketplace, I came to have a cup of soup, a glass of water, and five pieces of free bread for dinner. Her opinions didn’t go unchallenged, though: I made the soup potato.

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We here at Defenestration often like to pretend that these stories are actually based on true events. Mary Catherine Owen insists this is not one of those times. Damn it.

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