French Fry Guy

When I moved to Berlin in 2001, it was that time of the year when Germans start taking homeopathic anti-depressants. My roommate was psycho, my boyfriend lived in Amsterdam, and it rained for gray days on end. I found solace in the top-floor restaurant of the department store, Kaufhof, which was a few tram stops away on Alexanderplatz. I’d order a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, surrounded by members of the retirement community. With the plaza and the television tower in view, I’d write letters, waiting for melancholy to dissipate.

This solitary habit of Kaffee und Kuchen extended past the first autumn, pulling me through four years of expatriate life. After escaping that first living arrangement, I’d still make time to take the metro thirty minutes for my Alexanderplatz ritual. Eventually, I moved over to the west and up the café ladder when Starbucks arrived on Friedrichstraβe. Tipping my hat off to globalization, I’d settle into purple armchairs, overpriced cheesecake and steaming white chocolate, pretending like I was back in California.

Though I am happier here in Holland, living with my now-husband, I occasionally need a bit of cafeteria therapy. When I got fired from paper-pushing at Shell, for example, or had left California following my mother’s funeral, I sought spots at the local equivalent to Kaufhof’s restaurant. La Place on the top floor of department store Vroom en Dreesman is a culinary wonderland. Every American guest I’ve taken here is wowed by the salad bar, and in the Hague store, by the bird’s view of the shopping district. I’ve used the space as a meeting point for my mother-in-law, for cake and tea with a good friend or the solo, slightly-extravagant lunch. The bakery downstairs sells croissants that melt in your mouth, which I’ve snuck up to the restaurant with postcards and stationery. Since La Place got remodeled a few months ago, there are nooks and corners to disappear in. I take books and pens and can be left alone, even when I haven’t paid for victuals.

Yesterday was an afternoon warranting indulgence. I had postponed a trip downtown for two days, getting lost in the hours behind my desk. I had a copy of my dissertation to send to Berlin that, when duplicated, would sanction the handing over of my PhD diploma. It was the last day I could mail it to get it there on time.

Twenty-four weeks into my first pregnancy, a day running errands doesn’t happen as easily as it once did. I hobbled to the tram, hobbled back out and made the journey to my favorite copy store in this Kinko-less city. While my hour there passed surprisingly uneventfully, the spontaneous errand that followed became the bane of my metropolitan jaunt. I could not resist stopping in at the organic grocery store, which was a few shops away from the copier. I should have waited until after I had been to the post office, but that would have involved backtracking for groceries. I’ve come to the point in my pregnancy when, for the first time, even biking is easier than walking.

I couldn’t afford organic groceries, really, but I had just enough money for a croissant, postage, and some fruit.  “Some fruit” turned into some vegetables, tea and kiwis, and I had less left in my wallet than I should have. At the post office, I bought an envelope, and a few minutes later, some packaging tape. By the time I pulled my number and got in line, I started to wonder if I had enough to send my dissertation. 

Another part about being pregnant is finicky body temperature. There was a cheerful autumn wind yesterday, but the post office was a veritable sauna. While packing my mail, borrowing scissors, and hobbling across the hall to pull my ticket, I had worked up a flush and obvious sweat. My mom’s hand-me-down overcoat was balanced on my arm, and the bag of groceries seemed ever-heavier.

There was a cash machine outside, and if I hurried, I could make it back before my number was called. I hobbled outside again, perspiring buckets, and caught my face in the reflection of the window. My cheeks were so magenta, I looked like a Hummel figurine. A passerby apparently liked that, because he called me “little girl,” asking me for something like change or shag. I had no idea what he said, but I was crabby, so I said “Nope,” while wondering what pregnant part of me he found “little.”

The machine refused to give me money. I apparently didn’t have enough to withdraw. That left me to the devices of my change purse. Back at the counter, I had to resort to the “standard” delivery rate, which, if legitimate, would barely get my package to Berlin on time. I kicked myself for getting organic kiwis before fulfilling obligations. 

With the euro left in my pocket, it was now time for that croissant. Boy, did I ever need a treat.

I grunted and groveled my way to Vroom en Dreesman, pissed that I had no job, book deal, or income. Three escalators later and one floor from La Place, I took a seat in a recliner in the home furniture section.  

“Hi.”           

“Hi!”

“I have a favor to ask. Are you really busy right now?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well never mind.”

“What do you need, honey?” He laughed.

“Can you look online and find me the telebanking number for my account? I need to see how much is left on it.  I’m not at home.”

I heard my husband clicking and typing away. Five minutes later, he’d found it. I called my bank and discovered that I had, indeed, enough money on my account to withdraw. In some conspiracy of the evil metropolitan universe, the machine had lied.

In an instant, the croissant I had bought downstairs was postponed into a tasty snack for dinner. Not a minute later, I found myself standing in front of the French fry guy at La Place. 

He ignored me for a few seconds, until his supervisor walked by.  He elbowed French fry guy, saying, “Hey, customer,” to which French fry guy nodded, his backed still turned to me.  Eventually, he found it fit to give me the time of day.

He threw some freshly cut potatoes into the fryer and walked away, waiting for them to cook. I wanted more. He didn’t put enough in the vat. What was this guy’s problem? Or was this my punishment? Throw me a bone, here, universe. Are you really going to deprive me of my current need for gratification, which, come on now, isn’t really all that decadent to begin with? More fries, more fries, give me more.

But I didn’t say anything. I wondered if he thought I was fat and needed to go on a diet. I’m pregnant, you oaf. If you saw that, you would sympathize. 

He stood at the far end of the cooking area, glancing at me every now and then from ten feet away. He really couldn’t stand me. He could have stood here, by the fryer with his back turned like before, but he chose to stand over in Siberia. Was it my accent? Or was it my lack of a paid job? Did he hate his job and hate me for not having to be anywhere at 2:30 in the afternoon?

I killed time, ogling all the raw food on display. I decided I wanted some salmon. Heck, I was going to go all out. If I wasn’t going to get my fair share of fries, I’d at least get a proper lunch. I had, after all, a baby to feed.

“Hey sir?”

Ignore.

“Hello, sir??”

Nod up.

“Throw in some salmon.”

“What?”

“I WANT SALMON.” His head rolled back.

“It’s almost done, your fries are almost done.” He then proceeded to not get me any salmon, because it would have cramped his cooking rhythm.

“Oh.” Who did this guy think he was, telling me what and when I should order? He really hated my guts. 

“Do you want fish?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, if you want, I make for you.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“You want fish?”

“Yes.” He picked out the smallest piece from a pile of pink and orange steaks, then threw it into the wok. He obviously thought I was fat and needed to go on a diet.

Two girls in headscarves chatting in Arabic swept by behind me, fingering pieces of salad they had just put in a bowl. They took their tray to a station a few feet away, where my guy had decided to stand, arms crossed over his chest. They spoke to him, and he began cooking shrimp and stir-fry vegetables to order. He liked those girls. He laughed with them, made jokes, and concocted their meal in like minus twenty seconds. I heard the more rambunctious of the pair ask him what his name was. “Saíd,” he replied. Then they left.

My salmon took years to grill.  Saíd came over to me, looked at the flame under the wok, and shrugged, apologizing. “Sorry it’s taking so long.” 

I wondered if he had the heat set low on purpose. “Is it broken?”

“No, it’s just made like that.” Right. 

Instead of walking away, he stayed put, keeping his grip on the pan’s handle. He gave it a shake every now and then before looking directly into my eyes for a split second. His boss came by and chewed him out for something else. Though his Dutch wasn’t perfect, Saíd could hold an argument.

“Rice or French fries with your fish?” I pointed to the meager pile of fries he’d cooked earlier. 

“Fries.”

He nodded, slightly apologetic. He saw that I wasn’t out to make his life miserable, that my French fry and fish combination actually had a purpose. 

Saíd was obviously unhappy to be there. He didn’t like his job, and I didn’t like my afternoon. We were a pair of curmudgeons and our elbows had rubbed in the space between the sneeze guard and his grill.

“Where are you from?”

He looked up, doing a double take.

“Where are you from?  Where?”

He smiled. “Take a guess.” 

As he grinned into my face, completely at ease with my examining of his ethnic features, I had to smile, too. “Morocco,” I ventured, knowing it was a bit cliché.

“Egypt.” 

“Egypt? Oh, cool.” Not bad, I wasn’t that geographically divergent.

“And you?”

“America.” As an afterthought, I added, “But my dad is from Iran.” Other people from the region knew to appreciate it.

“And your mom is Dutch?”

“Japanese.”

“Wow.  Iran, Japan, America?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you learn Dutch?”

“Here.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two years.”

“You speak well.”

“Thanks.” Egypt. “You know how to make cushary?” I took care to pronounce it the way I had been taught, with the accent on the first syllable.

“Yeah. How you know cushary?”

“I have a recipe. But I bet when I make it, it’s not as good as yours.” 

His face broke into a grin again, and he shook his head, looking modest. 

My salmon was done. Saíd threw in some spinach, grilled it, and topped it all off with sprigs of cumin and a slice of lime. From somewhere in the recesses of the fryer, he produced a sizzling handful of extra fries. As he handed the plate over, he wished me a good meal.

“I’ll be working here tomorrow if you want to tell me how it tasted.”

“Oh, okay. I’m sure it’ll be great. Have a good one, okay?”

Nodding, Saíd smiled one last time. I picked up the tray, my mom’s hand-me-down-coat and the organic groceries before hobbling to the cash register.

 

Copyright © 2007 Anastasia Hacopian. All rights reserved.