French Fries

My father says French fries are the perfect food.  Keep in mind that this man also despises eggs, so I'm not sure how much attention you'd want to pay to his culinary declaration, but still.  I'm finding it harder and harder to resist the giant and constantly freshened bowl of French fries that sits on the pass at work.  I like them when they're so hot that they rip the skin off the roof of my mouth.  I like them when they're floppy and fleshy on the inside.  I like them when they're burnt to a crisp.  I even like them when they've been in the pass for a while and are about to be thrown away.  

I just love French fries.  Evil little sticks of heaven.  

Ok.  For a food that possesses virtually no nutritional value, French fries might actually be the perfect food.  They have all the right textures and just enough salt to raise one's blood pressure.  

It's an ongoing battle between me and the silver bowl, and the bowl usually wins.  It's hard enough to pass up the beautiful, crusty Sullivan Street Bakery bread that sits in the basket near the Stumptown coffee station (an indulgence I choose to honor rather than ignore).  It's a real challenge not dipping my hand into any of the plastic bins containing the Belgian dark chocolates that we serve for dessert ("eat all the chocolate you want," my boss says, as if I need another devil on my shoulder).  

I'd be worried if my pants weren't a bit baggy, so I take it one fight at a time.  Yes, the fries are winning, but so is my resolve not to eat white flour or refined sugar, so take that, my lovely little potatoes!

As a social experiment, though, I'd like to point out that every member of the staff at my restaurant fesses up to having gained ten or more pounds since the place opened, attributable in great part to the free fries.  I'm going to have to come up with a better method of self control, because standing in the pass and willing my hand away from the hot fries just isn't working.