chicken

I took a bite and chewed it. It didn’t taste like chicken. It was chicken, though, the waiter insisted. I would not call the man a liar.

I had eaten chicken for breakfast and lunch, and lunch and dinner the day before. Chicken was all there was. And so it was chicken on the plate that night. It had to be chicken. It didn’t taste like it, though. But it was, according to the waiter, and I would not call the man a liar.

I had only been eating chicken for nine years. The waiter had been serving, and most likely partaking of, chicken for several more years than that. His skin had the greenish hue that one has come to associate with an individual who has dedicated his life to the pursuit of poultrification.

This man knew chicken, the essence of what chicken is, the secret knowledge that one can acquire only through a life of painstaking study and sacrifice. I could not question his expertise. He assured me that it was a breast of chicken on my plate. I had to believe him.

But I chewed the chicken. I chewed it fifty-three times, and flavorful juice burst forth from the white meat with every snap of my jaws.

And I am sorry.

I apologize to the waiter.

In my humble opinion, that was not chicken.