At the Fry Shop

Note on the Fry Shop

In Belgium, a frituur (fry shop) is a common and informal place to buy fries (frieten) and a variety of fried snacks. Fries are typically served in paper cones or trays, often with sauces and items like a frikandel (a minced meat sausage) or a Bicky burger. Many Belgians visit their local frituur regularly, either to take food home or to eat at one of the small tables inside. It’s a familiar, everyday setting, somewhere between a fast food outlet and a neighbourhood fixture.

Story

After his weekly session with the psychologist, Emiel steps into the fry shop. They’d talked about a new colleague who had criticised his work. It had shaken him more than it should have. Not healthy, he knows, but cooking dinner is out of the question tonight.

The woman in front of him orders a small portion of fries with a frikandel speciaal. She asks if she can leave a flyer for a music festival on the counter. Her voice has a rasp to it. That, along with her small frame and open face, reminds him of Erika, his former housemate’s singing teacher.
Could it be her? She looks younger than he remembers Erika. But that doesn’t say much. Erika had that kind of face you could never quite place. Looking at her, you might suspect she was older than she looked. Or maybe the other way around. As if her mouth, nose, ears, eyes and skin all belonged to different ages.

The fry shop owner scoops up the fries and drops them into the hot oil. Emiel shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He opens and closes his mouth.
She grabs her phone.

“Hi, do I know you?”
Did she not hear him, or is she pretending not to?
He leans forward and waves into her field of view. “Hi.”
She looks up.
“Could it be we’ve met before?”
“I don’t recognise you.”
“Do you happen to know a Jonas?”
“Jonas who?”
“Jonas Vanmarcke. He’s a musician.”
“No, don’t think so.”
“Oh, sorry. Must be a mistake.”

“What can I get you, sir?” the fry shop owner interrupts.
“A small portion with tartar sauce and a veggie Bicky burger, please.”
Same as every week.
“Would you like the house-made tartar?”
“Absolutely.”
“To take away?”
“No, I’ll eat here. I’ve got somewhere to be later.”

The owner goes back to her frying. Emiel and the woman who isn’t Erika wait side by side.
She says nothing. Doesn’t reach for her phone either.

“What’s your name, actually?”
“Ilse.”
“Then I was wrong.”
A short silence.
“So who did you think I was?”
“Erika. Jonas was my housemate. He’s a musician and took singing lessons with Erika...”
...
“You reminded me of her. And with the flyer too, I just thought...”

It feels strange to say nothing. Just as strange to say something.
“Now it probably seems like I’m awkwardly hitting on you. Sorry, haha,” he blurts.

She looks at him. One eyebrow arches slightly, arms crossed.
“I wasn’t, honestly. I really thought you were Erika. I wasn’t trying to hit on you!”
He keeps going.
“Not that I don’t think you’re attractive. I do. You’re actually quite pretty.”
“I just didn’t mean it like that. Erika seemed cool.”
“I mean cool as in a nice person. Not like I had a crush on her or anything. I didn’t even know her that well.”

Why am I still standing here, Emiel thinks. I came here to eat.
He sits down at a table. She stays standing.

“Your order’s ready,” says the fry shop owner.
Ilse takes the bag, turns to go. Emiel catches her eye. She nods. He nods back.