Arthur bought them both.
He opened the pantry. The beans were there—a dusty can of B&M, as always. But the frankfurters were not. He checked the meat drawer. Empty. The freezer. A lone bag of peas. A chill, far colder than the freezer’s, ran down his spine. the frank & beans quandary
The corner store was still open. He walked the three blocks in a fine drizzle, rehearsing the geometry of the meal in his head. But the store’s cooler was a graveyard of culinary compromise. No all-beef. Only “poultry links” and something called “wheat-based protein tubes.” Arthur bought them both
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. But the frankfurters were not
And yet, he finished the plate. Not because it was good, but because he realized the quandary had never been about the food. It was about the decision. A bad Tuesday ritual was still a Tuesday ritual.
Then he saw them. A small, sad package of cocktail wieners. And a can of vegetarian beans in “maple-ish sauce.”