Reheated. One week old. From a well-to-do, posh-ish steakhouse. Sonny ordered the rotisserie chicken—the “specialty.” It came with green beans and mashed potatoes.
He didn’t finish it, and put it in the fridge. There it sat, with leftover paella and two blocks of cheese.
Fast forward to an hour ago. I’m talking with Uber peep Seth, mapping out the meaning of life and sh*t, stuff most people can’t begin to wrap their minds around, and I’m munching on the now warm leftover Sonny meal consisting of said chicken, beans and potates.
Frikkin’ outstanding. The consistency is firm, like a pudding, with flakes of red skin laid in, flecks of pepper that pop like sultry, snide remarks in the creamy potato conversation. There’s garlic there, in the back, dressed well, not making a scene, but noticed. I nodded my head toward him, paying homage.
I cried when I finished them. Frickin’ chicken, leave me! And find me more potatoes!