In October we meet at the “O”, an on-campus restaurant of
dubious cleanliness and another checkmark on her list of must-try Pittsburgh
eateries, the same list I press on every out-of-towner I know. She’s from up north,
just stopping in for a few years of grad school, but I’ve already coerced her
into trying a sandwich piled with fries, coleslaw, and cheese, and divulged the
secret ingredient of local salads.
Yes, it’s French fries. On everything. And though she seems
like the healthy type—a vegetarian—with a much more refined palate than
mine—that is, able to handle Indian food—she is open to giving a greasy basket
of “O” fries a shot.
When we go to retrieve our food, the “O’s” high counter
comes midway up to her shoulders. The main level is crowded, so in interest of
hearing each of our quiet voices, we take our overflowing tray upstairs and
find a seat by the window. We commiserate over classes between bites of
ketchup-laden fries, and she talks about the courses she’s teaching, her boyfriend
back home, and the challenges of owning a pit bull...
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