Fry Guy

I want to make a suggestion. No, a mandate. I would never do anything to put Grimace's primacy in question. But the Fry Guy? I barely remember what he even looked like. Which is fine, because I just found his replacement. So here goes. On a recent night out on the Lower East Side, a 4am kind of night out, I stumble into a fry and frozen yogurt joint. Because those two things seem to go together naturally for the fry guy. He's about 80. He works until the next person comes in, and he doesn't worry about exactly when that is. It's not a shift to him. As my grandmother says, if you love what you do you'll never work another day in your life. And he loves it. You can tell by his grin. Although he doesn't have teeth, he's got a dazzling smile. He eats his potatoes, as he calls fries, everyday. Sometimes with an egg on top. Even if you order a small size, $4, he gives you a large order. Or maybe the small is really large. Like Starbucks. The menu's a formality, but the customer service is genuine. I have no reason to linger, but I stand there for twenty minutes, enraptured as he talks. About the truck he gets his potatoes from. Which he assures me sells everything, except his "medicine," a value-sized bottle of Metamucil he proudly takes off a shelf to show me up close. I thought you're supposed to hide stuff like that in the bowels of your medicine chest. Not the fry guy. There's something extraordinarily endearing about people who share their Metamucil the instant you meet them. And his fries are good and there are a lot of them. Unless Grimace personally escorts me to McDonald's, I think I'm through with them. For everyone else, go find a place called Beglian Fries at 113 Avenue A. Lest you think I'm exaggerating, there are a whole eight other people at Yelp who agree. Or is it "a whole eight other people at Yelp that agree." Shit. I've gotten off topic. Just get the fries.