Charlotte Verheyen

The scent of frying oil clung to me like a second skin. By now, it barely registered. I used to scrub it off in the evenings, thinking it made me less presentable, but after twenty years standing behind the counter of my friterie in Namur, Belgium. I wear it like a badge. People say my fries are the best in the world. I let them talk—who am I to argue?

Business wasn't always like this. My first stand was little more than a metal shack with a temperamental fryer. I remember huddling by the oil on cold mornings, hands numb, praying the potatoes would crisp just right. Now, I have employees, shiny new equipment, and lines stretching down the cobblestone streets. I rarely need to work the fryer myself, but last week the tourists swarmed in, and we couldn't keep up. So, I rolled up my sleeves.

That's when he appeared—a Frenchman, loud and insistent, claiming the French invented French fries. I gave him a tight smile and focused on salting the fresh batch. I've heard it all before. Paris this, Revolution that. Pommes Pont-Neuf. But here in Namur, we know better. Long before the French were frying anything under their bridges, our people along the Meuse were slicing potatoes thin as fish and dropping them into bubbling oil. It’s written, documented. But what's the point of arguing over something as simple as a fry?

He didn't let it go, though. Said something about culinary heritage. I handed him his cone of fries, golden and crisp, steam curling into the afternoon air. He took a bite and paused—just for a moment. That silence said more than any debate could. I almost told him I'm 52, that I've been making these longer than he's probably cared about the topic. But I didn't. Instead, I turned back to the fryer, the next batch ready to dance in the oil.

That night, I collapsed into bed, hair still perfumed with frying fat. It's a stubborn smell, but it's mine. And as I drifted off, I thought about that Frenchman and smiled. Let them argue. The fries speak for themselves.