The fries I had with my sandwich at Frank & Shirley’s were the kinds that make me close my eyes and cry out in disturbing ecstasy. Deep-fried crispy shell with a buttery middle that melted on my dirty tongue, holy shit I ate those bitches like it was a fucking religious experience.
“I can’t remember the last time I had fries this good,” I moaned. I’m the kind of broad who will pick through fries on my dining companions’ plates, searching for “good ones.” Past boyfriends have written case studies on it.
“California,” Henry answered.
“Huh?” I asked, tonguing a masticated potato like I was being filmed for money.
“At that Greek restaurant, remember?”
“Um, Henry? I barely remember anything about that trip [to Coachella in ’04]; I had major rage blackouts.”
And then Henry finished the rest of his omelet with a frown, because I guess that trip meant more to him.