Nikki is hungry - her text urges me to "...hurry, I'm in the little shop above Hugo's and I'm starving..." I park, traverse the wintry street scene, and enter the shop, stomping and shaking off the cold just in time to hear the store owner compliment my fiend's long, shaggy, fabulous coat. Great - impromptu fashion flattery means only one thing. Fifteen minutes later we exit with hands full of bags.
We descend the stairs to the iconic Hugo’s - the screen door slams shut behind us - the restaurant is crowded - there's a wait list, so we find our way to the crowded bar - I have every intention of ordering a drink even though it's only 12:25pm on a Tuesday - seems wrong not to. I order a Bourbon and Ginger as we shed our coats, scarves, and hats and adhere them to our stools and under bar hooks. Hugo's is a godsend, chock full of cramped locals - it's loud, warm, and familiar. The bartender is slightly aloof and tired, perfect - she orders a disappointing, watery domestic beer.
I order a basket of their iconic fries - with malt vinegar. Don't forget the fucking malt vinegar, hipster, slightly aloof, yawning bartender. We chat and sip our drinks as the local, huddled masses clap us on the back, wink, and inadvertently bump into our backs - my gray Trapper hat with fuzzy flaps stays atop my head - with furrowed brow she tells me I look "..homeless with that hat..."
Hugo’s is one of my favorite restaurants in Arkansas; important meals, arguments, life moments have occurred here since I arrived to attend the university in the early nineties. My first date after moving to town, countless family dinners with my daughters, the cultivation of successful and failed business deals, falling in love and breaking up…all part of not only my connection to this basement eatery, but just about everybody living, loving in Fayetteville.
The fries arrive - piled high and steaming in a basket on parchment - it's her first time so she watches as I cover our basket with fragrant malt vinegar, then carefully position a small, white ceramic plate covered in a large pool of ketchup - the first fry is not only sans ketchup, and dripping with vinegar, but also the hottest - salty, crispy skin with creamy interior that releases more steam heat with my first bite - I spend the next ten seconds simultaneously exhaling and speaking because the top of my mouth is a millisecond from being blistered - but I don't care - it's part of the process, the ritual, the algorithm for attaining culinary nirvana in Fayetteville, Arkansas. My friend with the pink hair and shaggy white coat painlessly contends "...my God, these are incredible..." No shit - these are Hugo's Fries.
