There just aren't enough ways to tell a complete stranger how awesome they are these days. Social conventions do not existent for this often daily occurrence. What the hell am I talking about?
I'm talking about drinking until last call (2am in philly). Walking around starving because we were dancing our asses off all night in an extremely hot and smelly dive bar. Rudely sobered up outside in the cold night. Only to pleasantly catch a faint yet unmistakable smell billowing from the distance.
'Chicken!'-one of my drunk friends cried.
As we all meandered towards the overwhelming and intoxicating plume of spices and goodness, there was something on everyones' mind. CHICKEN! Sweet sweet Jamaican-jerk rubbed chicken. Best of all, no fucking line! Salvation and salivation!
James is the master of the chicken operation. He buys 1000 pounds of chicken a week. Coats the outsides with a blend of scotch-bonnet extract, cinnamon, brown sugar, salt, pepper and a touch of nutmeg. I could've sworn there was also paprika involved but James told me there are some ingredients that shall remain a mystery.
After I shoveled three quarters of a chicken and a slice of bread to my face, I thought "how can I show this man the gratitude I have for him?" James does this out of some sort of love. Who else would tend to a fiery barbecue trailer in the wee hours? He certainly is not paying the bills with this operation. What is clear is that he isn't selling just chicken, he's selling drunk people some kind of poultry-induced euphoria. Chicken MDMA. How can I possibly thank this under-appreciated gentleman? So many emotions. So little time. But I knew what I had to do.
I drunkenly gave him a pound.
Whatever, its not like this doesn't happen every time I'm in the area.
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