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Foreign Food

When most people think of foreign food, they think of exotic places like Mexico with their tamales, France with their escargot, England with the bangers and mash, Greece with its souvlaki and spanikopita, or Morocco with its couscous and foods baked in a tangine.

Me? I think of Canada with their French fries and gravy.

That’s right, French fries and gravy. Dipping a French fry into a luscious pool of gravy ranks right up there with dipping warm pita bread in fresh hummus, or licking chocolate ganache out of the mixing bowl. Trust me.

Growing up, my family used to spend every summer vacation in the resort town of Penticton, British Columbia, Canada. I must have been about 9 years old the first time we took the trip and I will never forget that fateful stop at Frosty’s in Hope. (Or was it Princeton? Eh, it doesn’t matter. What matters was the food!) We stopped to stretch our legs and get a bite to eat. It was blistering hot and I remember my little flip flops sticking the road as we ran inside for shelter. The first thing on my mind was something cold to drink and then I wanted fries. I was a sucker for salty, greasy fries. (Still am).

When I placed my order, the girl at the counter asked, "Do you want gravy with those?" "Gravy? You mean, with my fries?" I asked. "Uh, huh, yeah. Gravy. That’s how we like our fries here. Do you want some or not?"

I don’t have historical proof, but I was pretty sure God had opened the roof of that food shack and shined a bright beam of light on my face. HOLY CRAP! TWO OF MY MOST FAVORITE THINGS – TOGETHER!!! It did make perfect sense. French fries are made of potatoes and what better on potatoes than GRAVY!!!

"Of course I want gravy!" I wailed. I remember turning around saying, "Dad – THEY PUT GRAVY ON THEIR FRENCH FRIES!!! Did you hear me, Dad?? I said GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAVY!!!" (As you can see, my Food Whore potential was starting to show through even at the age of 9)

It wasn’t long before a huge line of family and friends had formed behind me, all ordering luscious gravy with those greasy, salt-laden fries. I can’t begin to tell you my elation as I dipped my first French fry into that vat of luscious gravy. I have no idea what kind of gravy it was, and I didn’t care. There was no better meal, even when the thermometer read a balmy 110 degrees F. (This is roughly 30 degrees C for my foreign readers.) I didn't even care when, in my lifelong battle with being a klutz, I dropped the scoop of ice cream off my ice cream cone on the way back to the car. I had just eaten French fries and gravy, man. Life was good.

From that moment on, stopping at Frosty’s became a tradition. When our caravan of cars would stop and all of my family and friends would pile out, I am certain we looked like the Von Trapp Family running through the hills to get in line for those French fries and gravy. My sister and I would actually skip and wave our arms. I think my dad did, too.

Times were so simple back then. We were so easy.

Oh who the Hell am I kidding, I am still easy. I am, after all, A Food Whore.

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Posted by Foodwhore at March 17, 2004 03:17 PM