The aroma of hot oil hangs heavy in the air, a joyous, inescapable cloud. Here, every imaginable thing undergoes a golden transformation, as if each food vies for a glorious, crunchy rebirth.
Fried butter. I begin there because the menu began there. BUTTER, already the indulgent part of other foods, battered, fried, and served on a stick, as if to announce: we asked whether there was a limit, and there is not.
Fried Oreos. Fried pickles. Fried COCA-COLA, which should not be grammatically possible, a LIQUID, fried, and I watched a man eat it while standing in line to buy MORE fried things. Fried bubblegum. Turkey legs the size of war clubs, carried through the crowd like weapons at a festival truce.
In Japan, we fry with discipline. Tempura is restraint, lightness, the vegetable honored by the batter. I explained this to the fry vendor, a master of his craft, forearms like rope.
He listened respectfully. Then he said:
"Cool. You want the butter or not."
I wanted the butter, America. We both knew I wanted the butter.
But first I asked him the question I ask all masters: has anything ever DEFEATED you? Something that would not fry?
He thought about it with the seriousness I demand of professionals.
"Lettuce," he said. "Lettuce don't make it."
LETTUCE DON'T MAKE IT. There is the one wall this nation ever found. You TRIED, absorb that, world, they TRIED to fry salad, and the lettuce alone refused the oil, and they respected its decision and moved on to cheesecake.
A man does not ask the oil for mercy. Only the lettuce refused it, and even the lettuce was offered the chance.
I ate the fried butter. I am not proud. I am not ashamed. I am a third thing now, achievable only at a state fair, and there is no word for it in either of my languages.
It tasted like a holiday that has no name yet.
I returned for fried Oreos. The vendor saw me coming and said:
"Atta boy."
ATTA BOY, America. From the fry master himself. My ancestors received battle commendations with less warmth, and none of those came with powdered sugar.
Next year: the fried Coca-Cola. One does not rush the great works.
The lettuce holds the wall alone, friends. Honor the lettuce. Somebody has to.