But this Tuesday, the quandary arrived.
Back in his kitchen, he prepared the meal with the same solemnity as always. The cocktail wieners were too small, too slick. The vegetarian sauce was thin and lied about its maple heritage. He sat down. Fork poised. the frank & beans quandary
Arthur Figg was a man ruled by routine. Every Tuesday at 7:13 PM, he prepared his signature dish: two all-beef frankfurters, cross-hatched and griddled to a precise chestnut brown, served atop a quarter-cup of Boston baked beans. No bun. No mustard. Just frank, beans, fork. But this Tuesday, the quandary arrived
He washed the dish, dried his hands, and wrote on the grocery list taped to the fridge: FRANKS. REAL ONES. The vegetarian sauce was thin and lied about
Arthur faced a choice. He could abandon the ritual. Eat leftovers. Order a pizza. Let the Tuesday spell be broken. Or—and here was the rub—he could substitute.
Then he saw them. A small, sad package of cocktail wieners. And a can of vegetarian beans in “maple-ish sauce.”