I almost skipped this one. Not the fry sauce–the blog post. Pandemic protocol factored so largely in my first foray that this breech of protocol seemed like something to keep under wraps. But in the interest of being fully transparent I will tell you about this second stop on the road to fry sauce.
I ended up going out with a friend I haven’t seen in a while. She had a gift certificate and I was up for an adventure. All I knew was that it somehow involved golf. After about an hour’s (masked) drive we arrived at a massive structure known as Top Golf, located in Midvale, Utah. Having not been in crowds for about a year, my empathetic heart was momentarily stunned by the pure energy of it all. It wasn’t even that packed of a space, but business seemed to be booming (or so it felt to this hermit).
It was a 1-2 hour wait for a bay (semi-private golfing location–think of the layers of stadium boxes in a basketball arena or baseball field, but the seats are at the back and you get to launch projectiles out the front) so we went to their restaurant, which was as packed as local social distancing regulations would allow. Basically, we were still fairly packed in but we couldn’t overhear the conversations of our fellow diners as well. Though we were only maskless while actively eating, I couldn’t help but think of all of the stuff still hanging in the air was we were ushered to the booth less than a minute after the table (and only the table) was hastily wiped.
But enough of my pandemic panic. What about the fry sauce?? Fry sauce was the only option and the waiter was a little puzzled that I asked about it. I thought perhaps I had just revealed myself as the outsider I surely was, having last played golf as a unit in 7th grade P.E. Back in his day, nobody questioned the condiments. Or, more likely, his inner monologue was “Please stop talking to me. I have ten tables to serve in the next three minutes.”
In either case, the fry sauce was served shortly thereafter, alongside perfectly crisped tater tots. After the obligatory Napoleon Dynamite nod, I dug in. The tots were unparalleled. The fry sauce was the most bland version of fry sauce I have ever tasted. It is best described as lightly tinted mayonnaise. The most compelling reason to eat it is because it is there. As soon as I saw it, I understood why the waiter’s response to my inquiry was befuddlement. It was as ordinary and universal as ice water.
Is this what we have come to, Utah? Fry sauce everywhere and fry sauce nowhere. I prefer it when Utah is flat out weird.
Marianne Hales 