French-fried potatoes

George’s mutton chop congealed on the plate untouched. The French-fried potatoes cooled off, unnoticed. This was no time for food.

There had to be a secret something to make french fries that good. / Now, to most people, a french-fried potato is a pretty uninspiring object. It’s fodder, something to kill time chewing between bites of hamburger and swallows of milk shake. That’s your ordinary french fry. The McDonald’s french fry was in an entirely different league.

He ate quickly, as it is easy to do with fried food—opening a tartar sauce, dipping pieces of fish, lifting a few french fries, stabbing them into the ketchup, then biting them, and repeating. He ate his while it was hot, holding his fork for the coleslaw and, every now and then, tasting it. He watched Christina feeling closer to her and thought, maybe it was the pleasure of the food. He watched her open a small-side container of clear liquid, dip a french-fried potato into it, and then eat it.

He ordered panfish that was served with creamy coleslaw and some french-fried potatoes.