This I Believe: Marriage, Spicy Fries

I believe I’ll mate and procreate eventually. I’m doing it to spite China.

Qi and I discussed many things on our Monday walk to the gym: Ryan Seacrest; shoes.com; the definition of “casserole” (“You put a bunch of stuff in a dish and bake it,” I said, prompting Julia Child to do a posthumous 360). But after awhile our conversation lapsed. Qi toed the dirt with her Adidas Outrunner. “Um, so, when you go visit your family and friends...will anyone try to find a boyfriend for you?” Before I could think of a response (i.e. a clever version of “no”), she continued: “Because if you were in China, you know, at your age, people would think that you do not want a boyfriend.”

That’s why I’m proud to be an American. U-S-A!

Okay, history shows I’m just a smidge worried about this marriage/kids deal. If you were to tap the diary archives, you’d see the same Bridget Jones announcement every two months or so: I will die fat and alone. But in honor of our swingin’ single forefathers, today I proclaim: no, I will not die fat and alone. Maybe fat. But not alone. Take that, communism!

Yesterday, in celebration of this resolution, I ordered the popcorn shrimp/spicy fries combo at Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. I did it for democracy, and to test my second pillar of culinary nostalgia. 1) Spaghetti-Os. 2) Spicy fries.

One day in 1987 or ’88, my mother and I declared ourselves spicy fry connoisseurs. Tops’ fries were the best. Unfortunately, no one knows about Tops -- not even the people who worked there. Tops was about the size of a C-grade Sno Cone shack. It crouched apologetically in the parking lot of a Murfreesboro strip mall. So ashamed was Tops of its dinky façade that it changed identities at least 10 times before ‘90. One day, an insurance agency. Next, a Mexican restaurant. Then, bail bonds. If Tops were a Tulane psychology student, it would self-diagnose with an Axis II personality disorder. “Did you order a burger or a burrito, or fire and water protection?” Mom and I got the fries. Every time.

For some, the key question is: curly or straight? We just cared about the seasoning. The perfect spicy fry isn’t too spicy. It doesn’t seek to overpower your burger and Coke. It’s agreeable to ketchup, but it can also stand alone. The ideal spicy fry appreciates subtlety. What’s the in coating? Paprika? White pepper? Cumin? Tops won’t tell. Tops can’t tell, actually. I’m pretty sure the building has been razed. Look for a massive grease spot and unsigned promissory notes.

Here’s the sad(der) truth: even if Tops had survived the 20th century, I would‘ve abandoned it. The spicy fry ritual ceased around 1991, when I hit puberty. “Hit” is the right verb, because I quickly -- and, I might add, unoriginally -- collected all the painful marks of adolescence. Acne. Self-consciousness. Eating pathology. Next, on a very special episode of... Oy.

And I might have skipped yesterday’s Popeye’s outing, had it not been for Qi. Apparently, China spends so much time fretting over its terminally single quarterlifers, it has no chance to worry about arterial sclerosis. “Junk food! We need junk food!” she exclaimed, after spotting Popeye’s on our Magazine St. shopping trip last week. “Er, I really don’t think we have time...” I could feel the Frialator fumes oozing into my clothes. Specifically, my jeans. More pointedly, the back pocket area. Qi looked disappointed. “Okay,” she said. Another mental box ticked off. Spinster: check. Joyless carrot-eater: check. Alright, alright. “Let’s go on Tuesday?” I suggested. Qi had a Tues. appointment with the eye doc (contact lenses), also on Magazine. O beautiful for spacious thighs. (God, I’m sorry. Bad puns know no nationality.)

I’ve never been to a Popeye’s. I’m guessing Qi hasn’t, either. I’d further suppose that this particular Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits has never welcomed a skinny White girl in the company of a skinny Chinese girl. “You want hot sauce?” the cashier asked, after taking our order. “What?” “Hot sauce.” “Oh, no,” I said. “I guess not.” I know the Look I got in return. Saw it in the Delta, when I brought my lunch to school on Peach Cobbler Day. That’s one craaaaazy bitch.

We ate it all in the parking lot, sitting in my car, listening to Destiny’s Child. No shame. You’ll be happy to know that the sound of greasy-spicy-artery clogging euphoria is timeless. Also multicultural. It’s a small world, after all. A small world with a roughly equal gender ratio, I hope.