Congee, You're My Baby: Island Food


	See those people on the left? Natives.

Guenther and I drove by David’s Fresh Cut Fries many-a-time. Once, we stopped just to check out the selection of soft drinks, Guenthy having said they sold a strange kind of soda called birch beer. If I could have likened it to anything I would have likened it to root beer with a cough syrup after taste it was that bizarre. After today, I think we both realized how foolish we had been putting it off for so long. Located in the smallest of plazas, the shanty depended on nothing but the reputation of its rich, savoury, stick to your ribs food. Never mind the condiments left open in the sun, never mind the weathered umbrellas waning over the tables, dismissive of their job to shade customers, never mind the lone picnic table beside a dumpster, never mind the flies customarily buzzing around your orders. The food is all. No, it’s not haute, and it’s totally fast (as in fast food), and you can’t really scrutinize food invented for the salt of the earth, proletariat worker who probably never knew food could be legitimately criticized. It’s just, as Guenther so poignantly put it, stick to your ribs food. It needed no appraisal, or approval, no validation, because people would still come to eat it. Why? I reckon because it’s that kind of dangerously good food; loaded with trans-fats, carbs, heart attacks, high-school cafeteria memories. When you like to indulge in the days when you could spend whatever amount of money and self-esteem on what we as adults today view as the most ‘disgusting’ eatables. That’s as close as I can come to describing this type of fare. Though I could also easily say it’s Newfoundlander food, which means it’s overly starchy and has starch where starch shouldn’t be and will clog arteries and give comas. But I say this all with the most endearing sentimentality, because I friggin’ love the stuff. Give me cholesterol or give me death.

David’s food isn’t complex, it’s certainly satisfying, and though I was kind of angry with the price when reading the menu board, I realized, after seeing the portions, it was really affordable. And if you have a hankering for fast-food, you may as well get it from a place that recalls all the flavours of thanksgiving dinner. Case in point: Guenther and I, being the ethnographic eaters we were, decided on the Newfoundland fries. What better way to know the food than to get the signature, identity associated dishes that stand in for a folkway. Yessir, we were alimental anthropologists, discovering new terrains of the table and trading pleasantries with the natives who happily shared their orders with us, who told us we were crazy for not trying David’s hamburgers, who made sure we got our fries with peas, fried onions, gravy and, of all things, thanksgiving stuffing. If not for them we would have never known that David’s was totally seasonal, that it opens when the weather turns good and closes for the winter when it dies down- whenever that may be. We chortled. They were overbearing, but only because they were happy to see new mouths; happy to see that David’s was still under discovery. We appreciated their spirit because it told us that David’s food was worth trying. Though of course, we had to pace ourselves. We wanted to try it all, but the hamburgers were big, and our orders of small fries enough to pass as a small meal.


	Surprise! Stuffing underneath.

Yes, Dave’s tried hard for what it was. Its fries were cut fresh, or so Guenther told me as he spotted the boxes of potatoes in the shack, and the options limitless- we could have cheese, we could have chili, hamburger, bacon, whatever our arteries desired. But today, stuffing was all we needed. Tucked snuggly under a blanket of gravy, diving into your peas and onion smothered fries revealed a French fry that became a vehicle for an herbiness so reminiscent of the stuff we buy on grocery store shelves and stuff inside our own selves at Thanksgiving. Mildly sweet, starchy and ambrosial, it was hard to have any qualms with this Styrofoam packed treasure. We dared wondered if the burger paddies were as fresh as the fries. What else could the affable Latina who served us do all day? Watch telenovelas? Regardless, only time would tell. We agreed to come back soon, to tell the world about the onions that weren’t stringy, but soft, and tenderly fell apart in our mouths; to tell everyone about birch beer and pineapple soda (of which I’ve never seen anywhere else). To crusade against French fry complacency and fight to make sure that every province has an embellished fry dish some day. Only time will tell.