|  I’m a decisive person, but I don’t do well with restrictions. I’m confident in my likes, but I like a lot of different, often contradictory, things. I don’t have a favorite color, or ice cream flavor, or fashion designer, because I understand the minute I limit myself to one thing, I will want another.
So, I’d never say that French fries were my favorite food. Do I prefer them over pasta? Yes, always. Over sourdough bread? Sometimes. Over pizza? Depends. Would I eat them every day? No thanks. But what I have realized, during this time of enforced isolation and almost-unbearable restriction, is that fries are a very special food. They are crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, and salty. They are also best made, in a deep fryer, by a cook in a restaurant.
Because of that, I haven’t had many chances to eat “real” fries over the past seven months. The first was from The Fly in Brooklyn; my husband picked them up and half-jogged the 15 minutes home so that they wouldn’t get soggy. In Los Angeles, we’ve enjoyed All Time’s take on classic steak frites, and the schmaltzy smashed potatoes from Kismet. We also ate fries once in the parking lot of a restaurant, where the tables were spaced about 15 — not just six! — feet away from each other. Those were curly fries, spiced and coated like the ones you’d get from Arby’s, but better somehow. They were so satisfying. Some things are not worth trying to master yourself. Making fries is one of those things. I can’t wait to sit inside Balthazar some day, at the bar, and eat some out of a galvanized cup.
(Some of) What I Wrote and Said: (Some of) What I Read, Watched and Listened To:  | 
No comments:
Post a Comment