I was eating lunch yesterday. It was mostly a good day, I guess. Couple meetings, couple calls, some e-mails, all that. Your ordinary average day in the life of. The food arrived (Chicken Parm Sub). I was just expecting a sub, but it came in one of those Styrofoam containers with extra marinara, coleslaw, and fries. So I am eating my sub… it’s okay, not great. It’s got nothing on Mrs. Volo’s Chx Parm, but I digress. So I eat my sandwich leaving the fries to the end as I always do, and I realize I am picking through the fries for the really cooked ones. They are almost hollow. You know the ones. And it hits me. At that moment, I wanted my little brother there because, with all things, we were two sides of the same coin. He liked the “soggy” fries, so we would always clean up a plate of fries together because the batch inevitably contained half overdone, half soggy fries.
Eating with David was always fun. He was disgusting with his eating habits, doing what we coined when we were kids “The Chipmunk.” He would stuff his face with an ungodly amount of food, which would puff his cheeks out while he chewed it down. You would literally review the Heimlich Maneuver in your head every time you sat and ate with him. Also, the noises he would make were just disgusting. He would eat as much as he could as quickly as possible, and it would just be the sound of chewing meets a vacuum cleaner. He is the only person who could single-handedly run up a $45.00 personal tab at a diner.
All of this because of some burnt fries.
