Home to the "Extremly Radical" Burger

The Chipwagon sits near the Town of Pointe au Baril, on the northbound side of Hwy. 69, at one end of a gravelled lot presided over by a building labelled both " E & R Tackle & Bait" and "Gift Boutique." I have long made a habit of stopping here and purchasing little minnows, looming over the tanks with judiciously pursed lips. But I must confess, I have never consumed the French Fries. I have instead taken my (considerable) custom across the highway, where there is a very modern-looking affair that is technically a chipstructure, having been made mobile.

But I have been given the assignment of investigating the secrets lurking inside chipwagons, haven't I, not chipstructures, so I decide to see what the refurbished Ford bread truck has to offer.

The chipwagon, I discover, is owned by Joan and Carmen emery, who also own the bait boutique, but it is operated by another couple, Mary Ann and Noel Lamore. I meet Mary Ann one morning. We are in the dog days, I should point out, and the temperature at 9a.m. is already near the 30's. Mary Ann smiles cheerfully and explains that the operation is not precisely a chipwagon, because they make other things besides; burgers, hot dogs, pogos, fish…

I interrupt politely to tell her I am interested mostly in the fries. You don't acquire a physique like mine without being interested mostly in the fries.

"Well," says Mary Ann, who is nothing if not agreeable, " we do sell more fries than anything else." And she begins to show me the subtleties, the intricacies, the mysteries of their creation.

We begin in a small outbuilding, a hundred feet distant from the truck itself. Inside is an orderly construction, a wall made up of 50 pound bags of Azilda Ontario potatoes. These are happy contented spuds, because on a day when everything else in the world is wilting, they alone are cool. The small outbuilding is air conditioned, you see, although the chipwagon itself, heavily vented out of obvious necessity, is not. So the process of chip making begins in relative comfort. On a small table beside the wall of potatoes sits a strange, squat machine. This is an electric potato peeler, an invention my crafty mother never told me existed. The potatoes are put into a small metal chamber with roughened sides, a button is pressed, and they are spun around inside there for 30 or so seconds. When they emerge they are fairly naked, although some tasty little tatters of skin remain.

"We go through three or four bags of potatoes on a busy day," Mary Ann tells me, "and the days are mostly pretty busy." Hwy 69 is a river of traffic, people going to and from their cottages at all and the oddest times, and the Lamores have been known to stay open until 10 p.m. on a Friday night, waiting for certain regulars to show up. The volume of cars allows Mary Ann to deal with the competition cross the asphalt in a gracious manner. " I don't think either of us, on our own, could handle it."

The nearly naked potatoes are now put to soak in large white pails, and we lug two of these across the lot and into the chipwagon itself. We step first, of course, into the driver's compartment, although a driver would be hard pressed to do any driving because there are a number of supplies, cases of pop, and coolers arranged there. Making the turn into the huge van, I am confronted by a clean, and functional kitchen. There are a couple of fridges, a small microwave, a blender, a sink, but the most important apparatus (being as I'm interested in - obsessed by is more like it - the chips) are the deep fryers at the far end.

Mary Ann's husband Noel is standing before them, precooking the first batch of the day. "The fries won't be cooked in the middle unless they're blanched first and then cooked again at a higher temperature," Mary Ann explains. I discover that Mary Ann's willingness to share the arcana of chip creation is complemented by her husband's determination not to. I raise my notebook attentively. "How long do you precook the potatoes?" I ask.

"I don't know," says Noel. "I never timed it."

I turn towards Mary Ann. She smiles Beatifically.

"Five minutes?" I suggest "Three?"

"Colonel Sanders," Noel advises me sternly, "never told anyone his secret recipe."

This attitude is not uncommon amongst the chip-making fraternity. A preliminary survey of favourite cottage-country chipwagons conducted by this fine journal indicated that many were loath to go much beyond the fact that the process involves potatoes.

I am forced to rely on my skills as an investigative reporter. I edge closer to the fat baths, noting that they are set at a relatively low temperature: 325 F. As Noel throws in another handful of raw potatoes, I sneak a peek at my watch face, but I am stopped by Mary Ann, who takes me up on an earlier (and half-hearted) offer to help.

I am assigned the task of turning nearly naked spuds into potential fries, a feat accomplished by a device affixed to the wall. A potato is placed on a small metal grid, a handle is depressed, the potato is driven down and through, and when it cones out the other end, it's chips.

As I do this, the Lamores go about their business. Noel's business, once he has placed the precooked chips off to one side, is wiping his hands on his apron and starring blackly at me. Mary Ann deals with the first customer of the day, leaning her head through the window and calling out a cheerful "Good Morning!" I hear an old lady's voice float into the air. "Well, summer's almost over…" The old woman continues talking even though Mary Ann now has her head inside a cooler, rooting about and finally surfacing with a small plastic container. "She's come for her breakfast," Mary Ann tells me "Peach Yogurt."

Noel leaves abruptly. Mary Ann comes over and picks through the raw fries I have made, throwing out any with hints of blackness and spoilage. By way of apology for Noels brusqueness, she tells me what she can. "We only use vegetable shortening. And we do the fish separately, in canola oil." I ask her about all these things - their use of peeled potatoes, type of shortening, precooking, the fact that she eschews potato whitener in the soak - and her answer is, uniformly, "Personal preference." She doesn't mean her own, she means the customers'. In Mary Ann's view, there's room for all sorts of chipwagons in the world because all sorts of people like all sorts of chips. "They may get a bigger crowd across the way," Mary Ann nods in the direction of chipstructure. "But certain customers cross the highway because they like our chips better. It's just personal preference. "For some couples, she explains, personal preference means one spouse eats across the road, while the other eats at the Lamores'.

It's about noon when the first orders for fries come in. Noel has returned, his stare even blacker, as though he has spent the interim uncovering sordid things about my past. Mary Ann has spent the time occupied with various preparations - making a huge batch of coleslaw, for instance. She has a background of cooking on a large scale, for corporations and hotels, so a mountain of slaw presents little challenge.

At any rate, a car pulls into the lot, a family spills out, the father places an order for two large and three small chips. Noel grabs some of the precooked fries and puts them back in the fryer, although they go into hotter oil, the dial now turned up to 350 F. Noel and Mary Ann periodically lift the baskets out of the bath and bang them up against the side of the fryer so the chips don't cling to each other. When ready, perhaps five minutes later, the chips are dumped onto the salting tray and then scooped into chip containers.

There is a thin slice of time, if you'll allow me to wax poetic, wherein a French fry nears perfection. On one side they are too mushy; your teeth fall through them without resistance. On the other side are those chips that virtually snap apart, propelling tiny bullets of grease down your throat. I suppose it's the precooking, but the Lamore's chips have achieved a delicate balance. A little salt, vinegar, ketchup, more vinegar… well, you don't care about my personal eating habits I suppose, but these chips - and I tasted many of them so as to be able to report with authority - are quite wonderful. Also wonderful is the care and attention lavished by the Lamores. The oil is changed at the first hint of darkness or smoke. "It just takes us a little longer to make money," Mary Ann says. "But if you don't change the oil, your going to lose your customers anyway." Nothing is left out in the stifling heat any longer than necessary - except the Lamores themselves. Noel has other chores to attend to, and is back and forth from the truck frequently. Mary Ann tends to remain inside, waiting by the window. " Besides," she notes, "if you go constantly in and out, it's very hard to come back in." She takes a handkerchief, wipes at her brow.

Noel loosens up considerably as the noon-hour rush continues - with the customers, not with me. "How's it going?" someone asks.

"I'm barely surviving," he responds laconically. "I have to eat my own cooking."

Through the screen I can see that people do indeed cross the highway, doing business at the gas station and/or liquor store over there and then making their way over here. I believe Mary Ann is right; it's all a matter of personal preference. Chipwagons are not necessary stations and stops, like fuel pumps and lavatories. They are little options speckling the map. It brightens the way to have a favourite, a place where they seem to do things because that's just the way you like 'em.