I like my chicken well done. Any sign of pink and I get the dry heaves.
When I go to any restaurant I always ask for my chicken burnt. They try but it’s rarely as well done as I’d like.
Some people are irritated by this. My nephew Terry, Stephanie’s husband, has requested that I don’t order chicken when I’m with him and since he almost always pays I’m more that happy to oblige.
There is one restaurant that gets it. It’s the indian restaurant on my block. I’ve been going there for years and I even have them cater my Thanksgiving dinner (except for this year which was a mistake).
After a brief trial and error they finally made chicken exactly how I like it even though they are mystified by it.
One time the chef came out to see if I was actually going to eat it.
Last night Julie and I and Susan and Allan and their daughter Nicole went there for dinner. There was a new Maitre d’ who took our order so I told him that I want my chicken very well done.
When he came back to the table he said “The chef says he knows the way you like your chicken”.
“Flattering” I thought.
Then my chicken comes. It is so burnt that I could light it and cook a hot dog on it. It was a bunch of little black lumps. No there was no pink on it but was also no beige.
Now I’m in a quandry. They made it the way I’ve always requested it. So they went a little overboard. Can I tell them to dial it back a bit?
I’ll answer that for you.
In the spirit of the season I will still eat in this restaurant and order chicken.
Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? I may not be one of you but if I’ve learned anything in my 70 years it’s how to horn in on other people’s stuff. Oh yeah and that looking a gift horse in the mouth thing.
Now a seasonal present for all of you to thank you for reading my blog.
A picture of Ray and his brother Mickey
And a picture of my niece Stephanie’s horse and his cat.