“fried chicken?” alexa mumbles as she skims the menu.
“Mm-Hm,” i respond and settle into my seat.
the cobblestone patio beneath our feet is warm—it’s finally starting to feel like summer!—and well kept, like no one’s walked on it for weeks. i conclude the restaurant has a first-rate cleaning crew. we order veggie rolls and salmon rolls and the saltiest, most delicious edamame ever. And then i smell the fried chicken. i’m halfway through my dinner when the waiter asks if he can bring anything else.
“how about some friend chicken?” i ask him. it just comes out.
“sure thing,” he replies, spinning on his heels toward the kitchen.
i’m not much one to eat a whole chicken breast—let alone a fried one, after i’ve had my dinner—but hey? there’s a first time for everything. Besides, who wants to crave something later in the evening when they can get it on the spot, for dessert? Not me!
the chicken is white and moist and steamy, the outside fried to a light, dainty crisp. there’s not a hint of butter or grease or anything that would contribute to a heart attack. carrots and pickles even come on the side. (in my twisted opinion? that makes ordering fried chicken for dessert okay.)