Froggy’s Café

Ken Davis

August 2, 2026

Vaqueros, cowboys wielding their rust-laden blades

As if they were scalpels carve the cattle

Into entrees for their rich ranchero patrones

While they subsist on the “trash meat” of tongue, guts, and diaphragm

Immersed in a softening broth of plums, cactus, and sage

Gestating over a mesquite fire until they are born

As fajitas.

Speed up to Froggy’s Café in the fifties where my Uncle

Doo-Dad takes the same “trash meat” as the vaqueros,

Rolls it in the thick bready dough

Tosses them into the crackling deep-fry basket

From which they will emerge as “steak fingers.”

Aunt Fronie presides over the sibilant grill

Cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth

Swearing and sweating as she sculpts the hissing patties

And flips them into the waiting nest of bun

Grease oozing and sizzling

I contemplate my youthful dilemma

Of choosing the squish of the burger

Or the crunch of the fingers

As Elvis wails Jail House Rock

From the nickel-a-play juke box.

Ken Davis is a lifelong Texan, born in San Angelo, lived all over Texas, and graduated from Tascosa High in Amarillo, UT Austin, and UT Medical Branch Galveston. He practiced family medicine in Conroe for 40+ years and is now part-time faculty in a medical training program.