“Une Pommes Frite” Claudio shouted as he stood at the counter of Al Fogolar the chicken cafe he bought without my knowledge.

To be honest, maybe it wasn’t quite a shout. His normal talking voice was loud and low and booming. Now I was in the back, behind the wall, standing in front of the French Fry Fryer. Yes, I was the new French Fry Frier. Due to my unpredictable crying fits and poor performance in other positions I had held that included cashier, delivery girl and potato cutter, putting me in the back seemed appropriate. A good fit for me, especially since the customers couldn’t see me. The staff, which included Claudio’s Dad, Mom and sister had agreed it was a great idea.

Claudio was at the register in the front. He stood 6 feet tall and was slim besides his protruding belly that hid underneath his white chef coat. The black buttons that pulled apart at his belly provided confirmation. His dark hair was thick and his brown eyes reflected his soul. His full lips often barked orders and his skin looked moist and oily due to the lack of air conditioning mixed with the grease that came up from the multiples chickens that turned on the spit at the front of Al Fogolar.

On both sides of the register were the refrigerated displays that held home made pastas, salads, and potato salad. My tears from cutting the potatoes earlier in the day probably made their way into the salad making it extra salty.

It was Saturday and the Italians were standing in a line that went all the way out the door. They were picking up their chickens to go enjoy on a fun Saturday afternoon. You know, picnics, bike rides, and family time at the local lake “Lago di Carezza.”

Me, I stood in front of the French fry fryer that also fried Fritto Misto on Mondays. The smell of the grease was a mix of potatoes and fish with it always being the smelliest on Saturday after a week of frying. I too smelled of fries and fish. That’s what happens when you are frying food all day. I wore a big white apron that hid my American outfit underneath. Jean shorts and a tank top. My dark hair pulled back in a pony tail and my face puffy from crying big fat American tears.

I noticed a French fry on the floor which must have escaped my hand when I was shoving them in my mouth from the prior order.

What am I doing here I thought. I’m from Newport Beach. I had a career in California. Friends and family, a car and baseball tickets.

Now I’m a miserable French fry fryer (nothing against other friers) but a pathetic grown ass woman French fryer who doesn’t speak Italian and can’t seem to escape the prison I created.

I yelled to Claudio in my pathetic Italian with my voice cracking from the crying.. “Une Pommes Fritte Subito.”