The centrepiece of the collection. The reason the collection unites. The reason we pick up the phone, twist it with our fingers and plead with the front desk to bring us fries. The french ones, with mayonnaise and ketchup, in the little jars, like they do in France. I want french fries in my worldly hotel. It doesn’t matter where the hotel is. We’re here for the inside not the outside. We’re here for the comfort, not the adventure. Room service is indulgent, lazy, overpriced and if we’re to be honest, not very good in terms of its quality. It’s delivered kinda cold and kinda a mess. But some of us still swoon. We swoon for the experience, for the presence of the first point—that it’s indulgent, luxurious. That’s the thing about luxury—it looks better when you’re pining over it than it feels to have it yourself. To pay for it yourself. Luxury is having something others want, and when you get it yourself, the question comes into play—now what?

This serving suggestion is trying to be sexy. I’m trying to remind the viewer of late nights and conversations continued into a private room. The silver tray used not just for fries. Sterling silver and a white starched napkin, the appearance of white-glove service holding deep-fried potatoes. The real cravings lay bare in front of all the performance. Because that’s who we are. Underneath the white sheets of the hotel and the clean fluffy towels, underneath the glitter on your eyelids or the perfume on your neck, is the same sweating, status-craven animal we’re all trying to hide. Give us our fries.