“It’ll just take a moment!” I shout playfully at my grandmother as I scoot off to grab a quick bite at the food court’s premier burger joint. We’ve been at this mall for an eternity, and my poor stomach just can’t wait any longer. There’s only one thing that can satisfy this gnawing hunger pain and cure my achy mall-feet.
I can almost taste the salty goodness as I shove myself to the front of the order line and bounce in place like a grade schooler.
“What can I get for you?” asks a petite, round woman with dark hair pulled tightly into a half-pony tail. Her nicely pressed grey polo shirt hides itself behind a once-white apron, now drenched in grease from a hard day’s work.
“One regular french fry please,” I state clearly and hand her a pocket-full of change. She passes me a receipt so that I can step to the side and wait patiently for my order. The rare and perfect order of french fries is almost a dream in itself; piping hot with just the right amount of crispiness and only one or two soggy fellows just to balance out the bunch.
“Number 48!” A second woman shouts. My eyes lift up from my receipt with great excitement only to find her turning the corner with the most outrageously large laundry-basket overflowing with french fries. She struggles to lift the oversized container towards me with both hands and slams it on the counter. Out of breath and with a glistening bead of sweat dribbling down her cheek, she asks “Would you like ketchup with that?”