10,000 Ways

You wouldn't know it, but there are 10,000 ways to fuck up a chicken. Actually, there may be more than that, but my personal studies indicate that that's a safe figure to go by.

I never order chicken in a restaurant. Chickens are my pals. I know them so well; I know them all, each and every one of them, by the way they cluck. I know how to pat them. Dry.

CHICKENS ARE MY PALS. When the chips are down, Mr. Little comes to my rescue. A little brining, a little sauce, a little loving care and a sweet prayer and Mr. Chicken goes gently in to that Good Night.

So exactly how does one FUCK UP A CHICKEN? Apparently, it's as easy as Chicken Pot-Pie.

Ask L'Express. Ask them how I hallucinated that their "Poulet grain à moutarde" could be anything other than what I got: a hockey puck in insipid "mustard" what . . ."sirop"? "Bouillon"? For twenty George Franklins, or whomever adorns these bills here. Okay, twenty Pierre Elliot Réné Levesques. Never mind that I spent $40 to get there and back by taxi. That's a $60 chicken, my loveable peasants. SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS THAT I DON'T HAVE FOR A PIECE OF SHIT RUBBERY TASTELESS CHICKEN TIT THAT I COULD HAVE GOT FROM METRO AND GRILLED IN THE MICROWAVE.

I was dying to have the bavette onglet frites but this once I disciplined myself and said, nah, L'Express will NOT fuck up a chicken. Above all, L'Express's chicken will be the best I've ever had.

*Sigh* I hate to be predictable, but from now on, I will never have anything at L'Express except the hanger steak. My own kitchen chicken, whatever cut or whatever form it takes, sings, positively clucks La Traviata In the key of "C? How good I can B, like, sharp!" over what I was subject to tonight. I brought the remainder home to make my dining companions and the server not feel too bad but now I regret no longer owning a cat.

Not that he'd have anything to do with it either.

(See, Ruth? See how gentle I've become in my old age?)