Tastes Like Chicken

My family is all kinds of strange, but perhaps one of the strangest things about us is our propensity to attract chicken feet. Yes, chicken feet. As in, the Chinese dish. Every time we go out to dim sum we manage to, despite having not ordered it, end up with chicken feet on the table. We have even been seated next to a giant picture of a chicken's feet. Now this would be strange enough on its own, but being the strange people we are, we are also on a quest to break this curse.

So today when we went out to dim sum, with two of our New York friends in tow, was destined to be the day that happened. We sat around the table, having just finished an assortment of who-knows-what watching the carts go by. One of them stops and my mother asks, do you have any chicken? The waiter looks at her, then takes the lid off one of the circular wooden boxes. Chicken, she says. Pause. Feet, she finishes. Of course. What were we expecting anyway? We shake our heads no, and she moves on to peddle her wares to other tables. But would that be the end of the saga? Had we gotten away—albeit much too easily? Alas, we had not. But it was our fault this time.

My brother looks over at the federal judge (one of our New York friends) and says, "I'll try it if you try it." She considers. "I'll do it if you do." It was settled. I sat there shaking my head, but they were sure this was the way to once and for all end the curse of the chicken feet. As they ordered the chicken feet I almost thought that the world would explode or that something catastrophic would happen, like all of New York City would spontaneously cease to have ever existed, just to prevent something as paradoxical as us willingly inviting chicken feet onto our table. I waited, but nothing happened. The two of them picked up their chopsticks and took a foot each, tentatively tasting bites. I could hardly watch. "It tastes like fat." My brother says. "It's mostly skin and fat." The federal judge comments. There were choruses of "it's not that bad" and "you all should try" (as the saying among those of us who take tap goes, hahaha...you're funny, i.e. no thanks).

Eventually, (though not soon enough), the tasting is over, and we dispose of the chicken feet we have ordered, minus a few bites. Just as we are leaving another cart passes by: chicken feet. But not just any: pickled chicken feet.

Sachi