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In an attempt to expose my friend (and office manager) to the finest Jewish cuisine available, I decided to treat him to Burger Nosh. Kosher Chef, the forerunner of Burger Nosh, was located by the boardwalk in the Rockaways. It became a regular hang out during my youth and I suspect those memories compounded by all the sun I received at the beach skewed my preferences for those classic burgers with the pickle-laden aftertaste. [To this day, no one has been able to replicate Kosher Chef’s special eggroll filled with Hungarian goulash].It wasn’t a particularly busy afternoon in the store and I paid little attention to the few patrons sitting in their booths. I placed an order for the Big Nosh special, which came with fries and a drink, while Andy ordered the snack box. We waited patiently at the counter for some time. The fries were placed on the tray in advance of the burger. I plucked one off the tray but was halted by Andy who challenged me as to how I knew that it was my order that was on the counter before us. I was in a particularly giddy mood. Anytime I get to leave the office for fresh air, I become intoxicated. Being the only two people at the counter, I was sure the order was mine. I flippantly and defiantly remarked that “I don’t know and I don’t care!” Then came the tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a burly fellow staring down at me. “Those are my fries,” he said sternly. If only we could have harnessed the intense glow emanating from my abashed face, the energy crisis would have dissipated. I apologized profusely while the echo of Andy’s laughter rang in my ear. I wanted to crawl underneath a rock and disappear.
The taste of the burger assuaged my anxiety and once again my effervescence emerged. I saved one French fry and offered it to the man on my way out. He laughed and looked at my thin figure and said, “You need it more than I do.” One last apology and again the fry never had a chance.