it tastes like chicken because it is chicken

The other night, I had a lengthy discussion about the land of Africa with a plump, mature employess of a Popeye’s Chicken restaurant, which was located in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn—not coincidentally proximate to the bar where my drink had been gotten on.

After a preheating of African geography quizage, I proved deserving of the cultural informational fruits she could provide me, so we discussed not just her motherland Mali, but Western African culture generally.

She explained the differences between these many countries, but more remarkable was her insistence on their true similarity. I continued to baste her with questions, succulent questions, for five to ten minutes continuously.

NEXT, the manager came over and told me that I could learn about Africa at the library. And that they have maps there, at the library. I thanked him kindly, but explained that I was more interested in the culture and such, and so I continued to speak with the employee.

“Yeaaa. They have books there too. Lots of books. Books about Africa. Books about everything. At the library.” He said, glaring at me with a most ghastly stink eye.

I guess we finally got the manager’s angry point because she went back to boxing chicken, and I took my chicken box back home and ate, like, the whole thing.

By the way, her name is Sonny-something-something (it was printed on my receipt that I just spent 20 minutes looking for, with no success,) and we’re shooting for mid-January for our Malian destination wedding, so best you find safe passage, post-haste.