I don't want to live in a world where French Fries don't exist

It is the year 2032. Due to increasing obesity, fast food joints have been banned entirely. Tell us the tale of bootlegging and speakeasies in this troubled time of prohibition.

The deep fryer sizzled as I carefully picked the hand cut potatoes and delicately dropped them into the lard. The house is locked up tight; all the windows covered inconspicuously with generic off-colored white blinds I purchased at an estate sale. I pace frantically as I wait for the potatoes to evolve into their final form. Once the transformation is complete, I know the consequences of my actions. A big heaping pile of prison time and possibly, the loss of my life.

The golden potatoes glimmer now, their crispy skin making their final crackles, as if they are showing off for their creator. I baby them and give them the time they long for because after all, what's the purpose of the potato if a generous frying isn't part of their destiny? All potatoes want to be french fries but now a days, most of them will endure a life with no glorious substance to nuke them into pleasure nirvana. Potatoes lost that luxury when the FDA crushed their spudsouls with overbearing regulations.

Finally, they are done and ready to be plucked from their lard womb of tastiness. One by one, I pick them out of the fryer, treating the process like I am disarming a bomb. No crust shall fall from these, not on my watch. I make their travel subtle and short; using the tongs for a quick drop off into their new home, a brown paper bag. All my creations are sitting crowded at the bottom of the bag, each tiny morsel sharing heat like a small family cowering under blankets in the dead of winter, not a trace of warmth to be found. It's now time to add the final touches, the little flare and bravado they need to shock the taste buds. A few pinches of salt and a gentle shake and these high dollar items are ready to hit the street.

"Tony, the deed is done", I say over the phone to my drop off man. "Get here fast, these need to be delivered to Mikey D within the hour". As I await for my henchmen to get here and pick up the product, I sit in the battered oak chair in the middle of my kitchen and stare at the fryer, pondering deeply about my life. The potatoes and I aren't much different... We both just want to be fried in a little oil. Wait, what? After my horrendously stupid pondering session, I now realize why I cook and sell french fries on the black market.

Reviews

[keith]

an ode to the noble spud ...

why is it one never hears ...
'ya want kale with that?'
many a friday nite has the french fry been paid tribute in countless dairy queens, dairy marts and yes, sonic ... and that golden arch thingy

well done ... entertaining ...
a grand salute to french cuisine

[NewWriterOldWorld]

Thanks man!

And you are right, so many side dishes fall short compared to the almighty fried potato.

Where would we be without it?

[R.E.K.]

This is great, you have brilliantly showcased the diamond of side dishes that is the french fry.