Chili Cheese Fries

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Guilty

Or

Guile

“…Pork chops and bacon, that won’t awaken… my appetite inside; I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay with Chafafa on the side.” Redd Evans

Speaking of guilty food pleasures: Chili Cheese Fries are a gift from the gods and I’ll go to the mat on this one. The exact origins are a mystery often attributed to Dairy Queen locations manipulations somewhere in the mid 40’s and 50’s of last century; the dish exemplifies the comfort food ‘friend’ category that we all know and love. A meal so completely satisfying that we want to eat it all by ourselves; company excluded. Nutritionally speaking, I seriously doubt if it’s healthy (at all).

Canadians swear by a dish called Poutine, which is fries and gravy with white cheddar cheese curds, also from the 50’s; it’s something that I would put on Po Boy bread. Aside: there is a fries and gravy po boy to be had around town, supposedly it’s the real original po boy sandwich; I don’t know.

Buffalo chicken, Bacon Ranch and Tex-Mex Nacho are all in the running to top your fries, as is a ‘Mediterranean’ topping: feta, Kalamata olive chopped tomato, Tzatziki or Tahini that makes my sympathetic imaginary stomach churn (I deign picture it and cannot abide). There’s a thing in (New) Jersey called ‘Disco Fries’ which is like a Poutine only switching from curd to mozzarella (could work). Some people even change the gravy to red sauce which I find is an insult to the entire pasta family (penne for your thoughts?).

I define a ‘guilty food pleasure’ as something you engage in singularly or with one other person that you care about (like old fashioned sex), and not necessarily something you do in groups (crawfish boils excepted).

Things you do, like having coffee and a nosh, can be done by two or just you and your newspaper; same with popcorn and cola on a bench, raw oysters by the dozens, Lucky Dogs and/or Hansen’s; and, is not what I would consider the  hedonistic pleasure that you get when you allow yourself to ingest something by yourself that others might disparage; like eating a whole rotisserie chicken sitting by the lake (solo), throwing the bones to the crab population and rinsing your greasy hands and face in Pontchartrain water.

Polishing off a can of Vienna Sausages leaning against my car in the parking lot of Dollar General is definitely a singular experience; and, it would take a brave and special soul to join me in pickled herring, canned sardines, raw onions and crackers or the occasional boiled turkey neck/pig’s foot. A person witnessing this dementia could only observe and marvel at my very primordial homeostasis level of culinary debasement. More genteel fare like gelato or ice cream can go either way; same with festival or County Fair fare (cotton candy), and/or adult beverages. If you assume by now that I don’t do well in crowds or mixed company…Bravo! As a kid I loved to play in cardboard boxes in which appliances had been delivered; I’d watch ants; daydream; collect rocks. Muse. I was my own imaginary best friend.

Sure, a gang can enjoy doing the Electric Slide; eight people can square dance; four folks can have a card game; three’s a crowd; two’s company but you have to admit, dancing around the kitchen in your drawers, by yourself, to KC and the Sunshine Band’s ‘Boogie Shoes’ is damn liturgical! (IYKYK); one is certainly not a lonely number.

Here is where I advocate you taking yourself some time to do things for yourself by yourself; maybe some of the things that you would normally (?)do with another likeminded person, like a movie, museum or shoot hoops/kick a soccer ball… by yourself.

Lunch at Bayona by myself was a pleasure. Naps are good. Take a drive if you can afford it. Learn an instrument or a language. A long and leisurely walk, what the Italians call passagiata. Shop. Conduct your own wine tasting, visit a book shop in sun glasses or take a Waffle House ‘All-Star (breakfast) Special’ outing (24hours). Write in a journal, compose correspondence, send post cards, smoke something for an illegal smile or ‘try to find Jesus on your own’ (thanks Mr. Prine). Call your congressman and complain on their answering machine.

We tend to travel and associate tribally, forming little villages where we all strive for the common good, even if it’s just a wedding, wake, birthday, barbecue or surprise party; my favorite being a combination of all five (think about it). However, this can come at the cost of our individuality: our singularity; that spark of peculiarity that draws other people to us and what draws us to other people. If we go off by ourselves, we have a tendency to substitute outside stimulation for our tribe and that way, we’re never alone.

Can you be alone without getting lonely? Alone with your thoughts, dreams, fears and fantasies.  Do it as an experiment to see if you can stand yourself for any length of time; if you really are your own best friend, it should be easy peasy. Spend a few hours or a day of non-interaction, no computers allowed; observe and feel your inner child come to the surface. It will be like Calvin and Hobbes if you take along your favorite stuffed tiger.

Here’s a start: go to the Nellie Deli (by yourself), grab a cold drink and order a freshly melted Styrofoamed, microwaved, newly deep-fried monster portion of chili cheese fries; sit by the widow or wander over to Cabrini Park a few blocks over. Get in touch with yourself; burp loudly.

 “Laugh when you can. Swear when you must.” Justin Hatchett