Let us bow our heads, Internets.
We come here today to mourn the passing of The Stockman's handcut french fry. In a world of industrialized frozen potato products, The Stockman's heaping plate of homemade, skin-on fries was a revelation. These were not Belgian frites, mind. They were not pretty and even and they could not have been eaten from a tiny paper cup with mayonnaise on the side. They were not double fried and extra crispy. But as American fries go, they just didn't get any better. Crisp but substantial and toothsome, tasting of potatoes--sounds obvious, but have you tasted a fast-food fry lately? It's like no actual potatoes were harmed in the development of those fries--The Stockman's fries were the perfect accompaniment to their excellent burgers. It was like Old Montana on a Plate. And the residual Scot in me loved that a single order was plenty and then some to share among a family of three.
The family and I went to The Stockman on Tuesday night. It was one of our first meals downtown since the end of tourist season. Just like in Prague, tourist town centers are often best avoided during the peak months. Imagine our distress to discover that while we had been barbecuing our own burgers and sweating in the basement, the restaurant's chief fry maker had decided that he couldn't keep up the pace anymore. He'd been preparing some 100 pounds of potatoes every single day to cope with the demand, and he was done.
The fries they're serving now are just like any other fry in any other restaurant in America. Bah.
The owners had put a notice on the menu to warn people, but really, I think they should have taken out an ad in the paper. Maybe, in fact, an obituary. And they definitely should have given us enough notice to come in and get a last fix. We could have taken up a collection to send The Potato Guy to the spa in the hopes of rejuvenation and future potato wrangling. But no. They're just gone, and we're left to pick up the precut, frozen pieces.