No Food Means More to Me Than the Frites at Cafe Presse

How the kitchen makes them, and why they matter to me.


"they must be thermally perfect."

completely cooled?
I'm a long-time Slog reader, occasional comment browser but have never commented. This essay by Tobias Coughlin-Bogue compelled me to sign up and comment.

You had me at "Frites at Cafe Presse", but this essay far exceeded the satisfaction and enjoyment of eating that dish. Best thing I've read on Slog/The Stranger in a long, long time.

Bravo, Tobias.
This is a beautiful bait-and-switch. I hope it or something like it works for you, Tobias.
Cafe Presse is the best French restaurant in the city because of exactly what their Frites represent...authentic affordable French cafe style food. No pretense. No jacked prices. Just the good stuff. And the most like food in France I've ever had in the states. LOVE that place. (And this article was really nice, too.)
What a truly excellent piece of writing. Thank you.
I knew and loved Peter, too. What a surprise to start what seemed a casual article and end up connecting to a shared grief. You are not alone.
I used to work at Cafe Presse, in it's first year. I love Cafe Presse & miss it. I read this article because I sometimes revisit the Stanger out of Seattle nostalgia (I live in San Francisco now), and wanted some vicarious Presse. I got that and also to revisit Peter - I worked with him before I moved away. I even ran into him in San Francisco one night after he moved here, just a few weeks before he died. News of his death surprised and saddened me, I'd hoped we could maybe work somewhere together again. You have written beautiful words about him.
Wow. I started reading this and then got bored about the author waxing rhapsodic about potatoes and nearly missed out on this story. Amazing read. I wonder if I was the only one who felt a bit sad at the end? I grieved with the author's grieving and I don't usually do that.
I like this very much.
Toby- thank you for this.