Maybe it's a joke.    It's what Philadelphia Phillies fans do to newcomers when the visitor asks, "So, what's the best thing to eat at the ballpark?"

        I fully expected the answer to be, "Cheese steak" or, perhaps even "Italian sausage" when I asked around at Citizens Bank Park before Wednesday's NLDS opener.

        Nope.

        Not only did most of the locals tell me that I had to sample something called "crab fries"--they told stories about how devotees would stand in line for a half-hour or so, missing great parts of the game just to snag some.

         Off I went, with a little less than an hour before the first pitch, figuring I'd have plenty of time to get the goods and see the pregame pageantry.

          There's just one spot to get crab fries at the yard, a place called Chickie's and Pete's in the right field corner.      There was a line, alright, snaking well into the concourse.    After that came the roped off area, the type you see at the bank.        Packed.     And, slow.

         The line moved glacially, which I couldn't understand since Chickie's and Pete's sells but four things: beer, water, some other food substance that no one was buying and, of course, crab fries.

           I heard the pregame introductions as my moment before the cash register approached, ever so slowly.     All around me reinforced the fact that what I was about to experience was like nothing else I'd ever had.     I was actually getting nervous, hoping I wouldn't blow my big moment at the front of the line.       I heard fireworks going off as I was ten people back, and the anthem played as I moved ever closer (they STOPPED SERVING until the last note).      Finally, I was there.      

          "Two crab fries, please", I said, my mouth dry and my taste buds in a hyped state of salivary anticipation.

           Two cups held 13 dollars worth of what I was sure was going to be the most earth-shaking taste experience I'd ever roll past my lips.      I strode briskly back to the spot down the left field line where John Jagler was holding our standing room spots, hoping I'd still see Cole Hamels' make the initial heave.       I was going to wait to make this a shared experience, but I couldn't: I tipped a cup toward my mouth, letting the first hot, greasy fry assail my senses.

          What I got was a crinkle cut fry, bathed in bay seasoning.       Want to replicate the experience?      Buy some Lowry's seasoned salt.     Empty the jug into your hand.     Then eat it.    

              40 minutes of my life, gone.  

         I made it back to Jagler's side in time to see every pitch.     He, too, was underwhelmed and barely put a dent in his cup.    I got about halfway through, not because of flavor but because of nerves.    

          I can still taste my crab fries--it is, as I write this, some 16 hours since my Chickie's and Pete's maiden voyage.     I've had clam chowder, a seafood salad, brushed my teeth several times, downed a huge cup of coffee and gnawed on a sweet roll.      Nothing is making the taste go away.        It's still oozing out of my pores, although it's a better smell than I usually give off.

          Adding insult to the injury is the fact that the locals I've talked to afterward say, to a person, that crab fries are over-rated, or not worth the effort to get them.      Not one said, "Aren't they great?"     No one.   All agreed: they're just fried potatoes with way too much salt.

         Maybe it's just Philly's way of yanking a visitor's chain.       I've broadened my horizons.     I won't fall for this again, if we come back.

        I should've gotten a receipt so at least the company would be taking the hit for it.