French Fried Goodness

I am addicted to French fries, but it isn’t the kind of addiction where you have to have it every day, or it disrupts your daily life, or you have withdrawals from not having it for a while. I just suffer from a minor addiction where if I am faced with, presented with or in the vicinity of French fries of any kind (expect for maybe the really soggy bowling alley or ice skating rink kind) I will polish them off.

                I think it may have started when I was around 5 or 6 with McDonalds French fries. They were perfectly salted, crispy, clean cut, smooth thin rods of greasy fried goodness. My dad and I would walk down to Ditmars Blvd and he would treat me to a Mcdonald’s happy meal. The first couple of times we did this I would happily be eating my meal and when I wasn’t looking he would dip his hand into my bag and steal a few fries, then a few more, and a few more. Soon enough there were maybe 4 or 5 left. This is when I realized what was happening and I began to make a little shield with my arms around my fries so that his big hands couldn’t steal any. I would eat them one at a time while he laughed and begged me to “give up a few.” I never would. Even then, I was serious about my fries.

                During my pre-teen stage I discovered Burger King French fries. My taste buds must have gone through some major changes because they were the complete opposite of McDonald’s fries. They had a new texture on the outside, rugged, yet still crispy and they were thicker with a soft squishy inside. I loved them and left my old McDonald’s loyalty behind becoming an adamant Burger King fry connoisseur, until I hit high school where I experienced my biggest French fry revelation of all.

                My mom and I were down in the East Village shopping one Saturday. It was cold, getting dark out and we had been walking around all day, so we were both ready for some nourishment. She suggested that we go to this place called Pomme Frites for a snack. I followed her down a few side streets until we reached 2^nd avenue. We came upon this tiny store front that had an awning and a sign on top of it in big old fashioned lettering that read POMME FRITES. We stepped inside and immediately were welcomed by the smell of greasy fried potatoes and the popping, sizzling and crackling sounds of oil as the fries were being dropped in to cook. I was in heaven. My mother sauntered up to the counter and ordered us a large. A few minutes later the man behind the counter handed me a big cone filled with fries. We went over to the bar seating at the back of the narrow establishment and I picked up my first fry. It was freshly cut, so it was imperfectly shaped. Each fry was unique. This one looked like the shape of a sail on a sailboat though. It was thick, but crispy on the edges and fluffy on the inside. The first bite was a mixture of saltiness with a crunch to it followed by the feathery fresh potato taste once you got to the inside. I couldn’t get enough and I devoured the rest of them (leaving my mom some of course.) Since then I dream about the deliciously greasy frites. When I’m in New York, I find any reason to go downtown, just to get a cone full.

                Recently though I have started to try limiting myself. I want to wean myself off the addiction. I won’t order fries with my meal at restaurants, but I find that I will be out to eat and even if I don’t order the fries my hands will wander over to other peoples plates and I will ask “Can I just have one?” Or on the rare occasion I get treated to eat in the OR, I will find myself drawn to the French fry section and will eat a plate full of them. And when I’m having a really bad day, sometimes I give in and go to Wendy’s. They have new fries that boast to be “fresh cut.” They don’t live up to Pomme Frites by any means, but they aren’t that far off, so they do the trick.