Ode on a Frite Pit

‘Patate a vingt cinq ou patate a quinze.’

Those bargain prices when I was a lad,

And with either size you needed two hands;

For a bigger bag have you ever had?

And to those Summer days lost and dreamy,

Before Cholesterol and inflation;

With a patate a quinze and a steamy,

At the frite pit I spent my vacation.

And carefree me and my buddies quipping,

With salt, vinegar and onions heaping;

While from those huge bags greasy and dripping,

Such memories are surely worth keeping.

And to look upon those days long gone by,

Where many roads I have travelled from there;

And of world cuisine I have chanced to try -

Still I’m coming back to Rue St. Pierre.

Yes, haute cuisine from gay Paris to Rome;

I’ve seen the other - the glamour and glitz.

But I can tell you there’s no place like home,

And a heaping bag of them greasy frites.