D, J and I went to Independence Hall tonight. I did my recce properly and there were two favourites on the menu in the main steam line: “BBQ brisket” and “rotisserie chicken”.
As you may recall, the brisket has a pretty good rep with us. D particularly likes it. Sure, the name is a little misleading in that I am pretty damn certain that it had never been near a barbecue. I told my dinner companions that I didn’t quite picture the DFAC chef slowly simmering the brisket in an earthenware dutch oven, occasionally tasting the sauce and sprinkling in spices to get it just so. Rather, I suspect it was removed from the freezer, dumped out of a bag into a metal casserole dish and slid into the oven. J then expounded on a fantastic machine he envisioned in the factory that converted cows to BBQ brisket without human intervention. For a moment I thought our less than appetizing dinner conversation would put D off the brisket but he just looked up and said “I’m just so happy that I can chew it”. Yeah, he’s been in KAF as long as I have…
Some of you may think I sometimes take liberties with the facts in my feeble efforts to make this blog interesting and, hopefully, amusing. There may even be those who think I made up the infamous Chicken Ass saga. Well, time to hang your heads in shame, you cynical, doubting bastards. Chicken Ass has been captured on film (or pixels or whatever voodoo IPods use)!
We went over to the secret line where there was only a very short queue but by the time my turn came to get some chicken, all that was left were a breast, a wing and…a chicken ass! I couldn’t select the breast because of the rules. I literally couldn’t select the wing because it was baked onto the metal casserole, so I chose the ass. Luckily, the secret line at IH is serve yourself so I could grab the chicken ass without having to ask for it…that would have been a tad uncomfortable.
“The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.”