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New York City

Chicken on a Stick

Familiar to most Americans from their local Chinese or Thai fast fooderie, called a kebab in Europe, easy to consume if you're not vegetarian, and usually fairly reliable as a source of protein. I'm going to talk about one I had, one I missed, and one I should have skipped.

Fordham, in the Bronx, has a commercial district that everybody on the low end of the income scale goes to. I spent a lot of time there, and kind of miss the place, although not that much. That's typical of NYC, the love-hate relationship. There's a lot of cool stuff there, but the sidewalks are crowded, and the neighborhood smells like sweat and piss, but then that's all of New York. Fordham was easy to get to, though, a single bus ride from where I was living over by Parkchester, and there we were, low-price marketplace for all my needs.

I got two dress shirts at the Burlington for a total of US$20, and still have them, although I haven't worn a dress shirt in a year. The Skechers outlet had an actual bargain basement that was worth going down all the concrete stairs. I got a pair of US$150 shoes there for US$35. The shady electronics shop, No Returns sign, Cash Preferred, run by two guys with Slavic accents, sold me an air conditioner for US$105 that we're still using.

Side point: I spent serious time in the Bronx, Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn, and went out to Coney Island. I never went to Staten Island, but assume it smells like rancid pork from all the cops that live out there.

So I've established that Fordham is a place where a lot of stuff happens. I hopped off the bus one day, intending to check out a couple of shops and then get lunch at the Colombian fried chicken place, that had a US$5 combo with two pieces of chicken, pintos, and tostones, when I caught a whiff of something.

I pay attention to my nose. I've got a better sense of smell than most people, and over the years, I have found some amazing stuff by literally following my nose. I'd caught the scent of barbecue, and was on it like a beagle.

Didn't have far to go. Two guys had set up an unfolding trailer in a side street, one of those that hinges in the middle and opens up to become a full field kitchen, and were grilling chicken on a stick. As I came up, one of them drizzled a little sauce onto the grill from an unlabeled gallon plastic jug, and the aroma was heavenly.

They served their chicken on a hot dog bun, laid the skewer in it then pulled out the stick, and drizzled a little more sauce over it before handing it over. Now, bear in mind, I am from the American South. Barbecue has been a part of my life since I had enough teeth to eat it. This was some damn fine barbecued chicken. I exchanged a few brief words with them, but my Spanish has never recovered from the gap after high school when I didn't use it for years. Pretty sure they were Mexican, from the boots and the belt buckles. Yes, they made their own sauce.

And I never saw them again. I looked for them, every time I went up to Fordham, and I kept an eye out traveling through the area on the bus, but it was a one time only experience, not to be repeated.

Street food is often like that. It's performance art, and you just have to be there when it happens. I missed out on another one my nose found because I just couldn't stick around and wait for it to happen.

This was in Brooklyn. I was on my way to a meeting of the New York Satanists, at a bar where one of the folks was the manager and we could use the basement room for our meetings for free. (We also held meetings at a local pagan shop, so that we had an alcohol free space available.) I'd skipped the taco cart at the MTA station, being a little short on time and figuring I'd grab a sandwich at the bar.

Then I passed a side street, and my nose brought me to a halt. Whatever that was, I needed it. I backed up, and there was a woman laying out chicken sticks on a charcoal grill she probably got at the hardware store down the block, next to a card table with a cash box on it. This was home cooking, someone who had decided to make some extra cash with their own recipe.

I asked, cuanto? How much? She told me, three dollars, but ten minutes or so to cook. There was simply no way I could hang around that long. I'd miss the start of the meeting, and it was an important one. Alas.

I got a grilled cheese at the bar, and took it downstairs with me. By the time our business was wrapped up, the woman with the chicken sticks had sold out and was gone, grill and all.

Must be present to win.

I said in the Rules, never get food from a cart within five blocks of Times Square. I made the mistake of not only discovering that rule the hard way, but with a chicken on a stick. My first clue should have been the location, but I didn't understand the radius just yet. Second, the cart had a stack of chicken sticks waiting to be reheated.

Folks, those stacked-up chicken sticks are undercooked, so that they don't turn tough when put back on the grill. Problem being, the vendor is not going to leave it on the grill long enough to cook, just long enough to get hot through, because they've got three more customers in line behind you. Very risky.

I ate part of the stick, found an obviously undercooked bit, and dropped it in the next sidewalk trash can I passed.

Lesson learned.