Frites: or French Fry Friday was never like this in Austin...

...since the kids were in pre-school - French immersion Montessori pre-school, that is...we have had a tradition that we call French Fry Friday. It meant that I didn't cook dinner (not that I do anyway) but that either Evan or I would pick the kids up at Ecole and we would do the french fry drive thru on our way home. More often than not, it is at P Terry's, a fine Austin institution with properly made "frites" etc. - all very PC and supposedly not bad for you. So, this week Creed asked: "Mom, please can we do French Fry Friday and go and get frites? And pleeeaaasse, can we eat there?" Well, this summer, living only a mere 3 long blocks from last year's apartment, we returned to see "Les Turques": two turkish brothers and an old woman who sits guard at a little shot gun, hole-in-the-wall experience with a pass thru window to the sidewalk outside. Last summer they got used to us sitting out front and Zelda rearranging the furniture as Creed ate his brochettes de poulet avec frites. So tonight, on Creed's insistence, and my fatigue, we headed over for French Fry Friday now known as "Frites avec les Turques." Once there, we placed our order and took a table outside, as two gentlemen - and I use that term loosely - finished their meal. As always, distracted by Zelda doing her tour of the tables, I hardly noticed the debate that ensued. It all went something like this: big man with accent stands up and starts rustling tables as older Turque tries to hand him money. Other man with accent starts yelling. Big man picks up chair to crash it on table and cracks me in the elbow - yeowwww! Creed runs to kiss me, I shuffle the kids inside with the old Turque woman and another customer. Turque brothers are in heated argument with men with accents - tables jostling, threats of destruction. Police station happens to be right across the street. Someone gets them and three officers arrive about the same time as our food that pretty much had been forgotten by the Turques. Now men with accents are arguing with the police, screaming is involved, something about not getting a receipt (?) - really?! Everyone is blocking the exit. Creed thinks it's an actual "case" and wants to call his (imaginary) guys onto the scene. We get our food, distact the younger Turque by throwing 10 euros at him, dump the food in a to-go bag and escape down the street - French Fry Friday was never like this in Austin...and my elbow is still throbbing...