An unholy deliciosity makes its way toward me, nestled in the medium-sized hands of a unibrowed waiter. Chili cheese fries. My quiet obsession.
Twice a week I make my pilgrimage to Sandy’s Southside Delicatessen to bury my face in the perfect arrangement of crispy potato, preserved bean and burger, and thick nacho sauce.
Sandy makes the fries herself. Her sensibilities concerning ratio, presentation, and generosity align neatly with my core values: indulgence, zest, and impropriety.
The unibrowed waiter arrives at my table. He looks around the room, as if to find me somewhere else other than where I am.
“Those are for me,” I say, reaching, anticipating.
He doesn’t hand them over. “You’re the one that comes here twice a week?”
“Yes, Sandy knows me.”
I take a fry from the basket, which still hovers above the table in the waiter’s hands.
“I’m sorry,” says the waiter as he sets down the basket. He turns to leave, then turns back. “I thought you were going to look different.”
I’ve already stuffed a large forkfull of fries in my mouth, which is so full I am unable to respond. I hold up a finger. Chew quicker than I would like. Swallow. Ask, “What did you think I would look like?”
“Never mind,” says the waiter.
“I’m genuinely curious,” I say, resting my chin in my hands.
The waiter places his hands on his hips. “The way your passion for chili cheese fries was described to me, I had thought you’d be…uh…thicker.” He winces as he says this, fully realizing his stupidity in assumption, no doubt expecting his fatspectations to be ridiculed by me.
I am a thin woman. Lean and agile-looking. I’m also the type of woman who looks like she’d shame a man for body-shaming, for body-size-assuming.
“Honestly,” I say. “I’m surprised at my physique as well. I eat like hell. Haven’t added a pound in years. Your guess is as good as mine.”
Relieved at my response, he nods. Bows slightly. Out of respect, I think.
When he leaves my table, I throw up a thanks to the Almighty.
Finally, I can gluttonize in peace.