Blessed Fat Chips

Some soft news writing from journalism today:

I approach the shop slowly, drinking in the brightly lit display of curry puffs, hash browns and spring rolls. The smell of sizzling oil wafts delicately from the back kitchen. Engorged pizzas drip with cheese. And chips. Glistening, golden brown, oil-saturated chips

I approach the counter, and am greeted by a cheery girl, wearing a yellow t-shirt, boldly emblazoned in red with the name of the shop, Fat Chips. She smiles from behind her rectangular glasses.

The question tumbles from my mouth like a potato cake into the fryer. Why Fat Chips?

“People like chips. Students like chips!” she explains passionately, adding that everyone is “all laughing together” when they encounter the refreshingly irreverent name.

A community is formed around Fat Chips, she says, as RMIT teachers and students (attracted, she reflects, by their cut-throat prices) frequently buy their food there, and come to “know us”.

As we speak I look down, and notice that we are standing at the other side of the store. On display at the bench are sandwiches, vegetarian focaccias, carrot, chicken and beetroot wraps. I buy a fruit salad, a goodwill gesture.

These offerings seem incongruous with the gleaming, salty foods presented at the other end of the store. Yet I am beginning to feel that there is much about Fat Chips I do not understand.

I begin to ask another question, but a sudden flurry of customers down at the chips end of the store distracts her, and I realise I will not even have another chance to ask another question, or even her name – my brief glimpse into this noble institution is over.

As I bite into the apple in my fruit salad, it tastes floury and insipid.

Perhaps the apple is not enough. Perhaps I crave something more. Perhaps I crave... fat chips.