O, Boardwalk Fry, you beautiful potato, you. Fresh from the fryer, deftly salted by Bulgarian exchange students. Your golden spikes shoot forth from a paper cup with a bottom soggy from malt vinegar. We know your crisp, jagged edges streaked with hand-cut Russet skin hide a sweet soft spud inside. You taste rich and savory, and like an actual potato, not an oily mass-produced thing. That tang of vinegar that tears our eyes, that salty twinge. You ruin those abs we worked for all winter. You subject us to the bratty terrors that swarm the Boardwalk. You force our tastebuds to crave overpriced lemonade filled with buoys of citrus. But we can’t help but love you for being all things a good frite should be. So we’ll take another bucket, Boris, and shake that salt on like your green card depends on it. ‘Cause trans-fat or not, we love us some Boardwalk fries.