The French Fries

    Still trying to figure out what to write about, I sit in this old cafe again. I have had an immense respect for food regardless of all the times I have wasted it and felt ashamed. On the table right across mine sits an old man partially bald, grey hair with big square maroon spectacles. He appears to be from a middle class family. His trousers’ well maintained, a belt to support it and its buckle hidden under his glorious blue shirt with thin dark blue stripes on a very thin body. It looks like he hasn't given up on feeling young and grateful. He is wearing sport shoes and his legs are crossed with one knee over the other.

    He had been reading a newspaper through his glasses and his thin body curled up in a comfortable way. He sits right at the edge of his seat and his back resting on the back of the chair which does not really comfort him as his posture demands a sofa underneath but he adjusts in feeling comforted.

    He had ordered a plate of French fries with a cup of coffee which has just arrived. He has kept his newspaper aside and looks rather excited about the fries, hot and fresh and still steaming from where I can see it. He does not really have a smile on his face which has a particularly young pattern of wrinkles even though his age is evident. All his attention is towards perhaps the most appreciated plate of French fries in the world at that point of time. He picks up the pepper from the cruet set placed on the table and sprinkles it over the fries in a very graceful and consistent manner, distributing it equally. He does not touch the salt for some reason. He fetches the bottle of ketchup which looks rather odd for being what it is with a brand unknown to most. “friends continental sauce” the bottle reads with two weird looking leaves on top of the ‘e’ in the first word but again it doesn't matter to him. He makes some room for the ketchup on the plate and witch much passion using all his strength shakes the bottle to complete his joyful plate of fries. His spine isn't resting on the back rest anymore. He is eager yet patient enough to have the fries gracefully. He picks up the first piece and dips it in the sauce and a sudden rush of saliva in his mouth makes him smack his lips. He gently puts it in his mouth. I can see it from here as he relishes his first bite, rolling that piece of potato in every corner of his mouth partly because it is hot and that he loves hot fries.

    More people have entered but he hasn't noticed any of them. He checks the seasoning again to make it perfect, just one dash of salt and not more. He relishes each and every bite from then on and takes his time to finish the dish. He keeps sipping his coffee to change his taste to have the luxury of having the first bite again... and again.

   

    As time passes and the last few pieces are left, he quickly finishes them but with just one piece left on the plate he finds his ketchup finished. He wouldn't compromise on anything and reaches for the ketchup again. He waits till the bottle lets out a couple of drop just enough for that last piece. He takes his final bite with much consciousness and shifts the plate a little further perhaps to tell himself that its over and finally looks up to ask for the bill but the waiter seems to be busy attending other guests who had walked in while he relished his dish. He is probably a little surprised to suddenly see so many people in the cafe as he looks around twice. He then reaches for the newspaper again , adjusts his spectacles, leans back and again gets back in his original posture, concentrating on what new stories media has cooked for him.