My French Fry Fetish

To describe the best french fries I’ve ever had would be like painting a masterpiece using the nerve that connects my taste buds to my brain as a bristle in a paintbrush made of wonder dust and dreams. I feel that if I were to paint this masterpiece, it would only be fitting that it hang in the restaurant that can conjure the potato-lings that have stolen my heart (via my stomach).

It would definitely not hang at In-N-Out. Their fries are so thin and way too salty. The same goes with other fancy restaurants that think it’s okay to charge way too much for sticks of wannabe fries.

Some places are worthy of owning forgeries of the masterpiece. This includes Canes, Chick-fil-a, and McDonald’s. They’re warm, chunky fries with enough pizzazz to make me eat them in the car ride home instead of waiting. Love never waits. Eat the fries in the car.

The only restaurants that can have my work bless their walls are the restaurants that  understand the essence of perfection when it comes to french fries. They must be golden. They must be so deliciously scrumptious that I will risk burning my hands and mouth for the sake of eating a fresh batch of such fries. There must be enough tater in the french fries to constitute it a french fry, not a stick of unworthiness. They can never be bland or too salty. They must radiate bliss.

 

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