Beer and Chicken Skewers
Four or five chunks of chicken, roughly bite-sized, skewered on a stick about the length of half a span. He carefully lifts the end of the skewer and takes a bite of the well-grilled leg meat.
"Huh."
Chewy. And tender! Who knew chewiness and tenderness could coexist like this? When he presses the chicken leg meat lightly with his front teeth, there's a subtle bounce. The springy, taut texture as he chews is pure artistry. As he gently crushes the chunks with the tip of his tongue, they melt away like threads along the grain of the muscle fibers, dispersing softly. But it's salty. Just the right amount, though. The coarse salt sprinkled on top crunches between his teeth. Surprisingly, the chicken itself tastes even saltier than the salt. Has the salt soaked into the meat? Or is the meat's umami amplifying the saltiness? For someone who hates salty flavors, it'd be tempting to rinse it in water first—but for a beer lover, this is anju perfection.
Another bite of chicken. The first bite had seemed salty yet clean enough to eat endlessly. But the second changes his mind.
"Urgh. Hot."
Sometimes, hidden landmines lurk in your meat—inedibly bad pieces, or ones like this, where hot juices explode in your mouth like a delightful bomb. The scorching chicken fat, brimming with juices, floods his palate. Even if chicken fat is on the lighter side, this much chaos can't help but feel greasy. But no problem. He'd prepared for this.
"Hoo..."
He takes two careful sips of ice-cold beer. The crisp, malty chill washes away some of the salt and grease. A faint greasiness and salt lingers on his tongue, but that's just the perfect appetizer, building anticipation for the next bite.
"What next..."
After two bites of skewer, curiosity strikes for other flavors. He sets down his current one and picks up a fresh skewer. Chicken skin? Yeah, skin it is.
"Mmm...!"
Crispy chicken skin over gooey, melted fat! That crunchy, nutty texture, paired with the salty rush of oil pouring out—this demands beer! But it's not anju you devour in one go. No, there's something better for that: the heart. The gizzard. That mysterious chewiness, tough yet springy. Maybe the salt brings out a hint of offal funk, but that's the charm. Chewing it thoroughly gives that satisfying, rubbery grip. But it's small, or maybe he chews too fast, because the delightful texture crumbles and slides down his throat in seconds. Craving more, he crunches another gizzard—then oops. The salt's making his tongue sting. Beer to the rescue. Kkuh. This combo never fails, no matter how many times.
Eating primly, one piece per sip, he maintains some dignity—until the buzz creeps in. Not drunk off one beer, of course. ...But just enough to forget dignity. He strips the meat off the remaining skewers. Ten bare sticks pile up in seconds. He spears several at once with chopsticks, shoves them in, and chugs beer. Way more his style than dainty nibbles. The salt builds up stronger with bigger bites, but so does the chicken's umami—doubled, at least, for four or five pieces. Not the best value, but for instant bliss? Perfect.
"Hoo... It's soaking in."
Maybe he's just hungry. Ten skewers down, and his stomach's still rumbling. Fine. Might as well go till dinner. At this price and quality, he could eat forever. Seasoned next? Or more salt-grilled...
Huh?
"...Cockatrice Set?"
Cockatrice. A basilisk subspecies, like a reptile-chicken mashup. Why's a monster like that on the menu...?
"It's technically classified as avian, though..."
Legend says it hatches from a rooster's egg incubated by a snake or lizard—a fantasy critter. Rooster egg means bird, sure. But skewering it for chicken sticks? Really?
"This is on another level from regular chicken. I highly recommend trying it."
"Oh, is that so...?"
After some deliberation, the chicken-headed staff beams from behind the counter, happily recommending. ...If the staff's this confident, worth a shot. Cockatrice skewer set, one. And safely, a half-and-half seasoned grill 6-piece set too. Looks like they do soy and gochujang separate. Flavor? Guess he'll see. If the salt-grill's this good, seasoned should rock.
"No way...?"
Order done, the chicken-headed staff fetches two 30cm skewers from the back. One dusted in pink salt, the other dripping sticky black marinade. Unlike the usual rosy chicken, this meat's pale gray. That's the cockatrice? First time seeing or tasting one.
The staff fans the charcoal brazier, ramping the heat. Blue flames? How intense does this need to be?
"Sorry for the wait. Half-and-half seasoned grill, 6-piece set."
"Ah, thanks."
While he stares blankly at the blazing coals, the half-and-half arrives. Heart, leg, skin—grilled in soy and gochujang. Mmm. Salty. Pretty salty. But the umami's solid. The charred soy and gochujang sweetness sticks perfectly.
"Still, salt-grill wins."
Honestly, salt-grill pairs way better with beer. Or just solo. No need to mask the fresh, delicious chicken here with sauce. Fresh ingredients don't need extra seasoning—truth.
"...No, wait. It calls for rice."
For a meal, though, seasoned might edge it out. That bold sauce could polish off a bowl per piece. Order rice now...?
"Sorry for the wait. Cockatrice Set."
"...!"
Whoa. Holy crap. What is this? Two massive 30cm skewers. Awe from afar, reverence up close. Fresh off the grill, bubbling fat drips into the plate like cooling lava. The cooled cockatrice oil wafts nutty aroma—bad for the body, but irresistibly good-smelling!
Ha. Holy crap. Chicken skewers were visual perfection; this is too. Where to start...?
Pull one piece with chopsticks from the end. Holy crap. The springiness is insane. Thought chicken leg had bounce—this is next level. Poke it, and it rebounds hard. Every press squeezes juices out with a sizzle. Damn, wasteful. No more prodding. Lift and sniff: faint curry notes? Curry powder to cut gaminess? Details later—eat first.
"Oh...!"
No—delicious! Insanely so! Cockatrice meat's texture mimics chicken. But chew thoroughly, and it's different. Fresh chicken bounces; this repels your teeth. Overflowing elasticity, not toughness. Softer than the chicken skewers, even. Once your teeth tear in, trapped juices avalanche, filling his mouth. Umami double—triple?—regular chicken's. Surrender to the wave, and suddenly nothing left. Like the meat melted away, all liquefied into juice. Faint spice lingers... Yeah, curry powder for gaminess.
Who knew cockatrice was this good? Handled it plenty at System Industry, but never dreamed.
"One of these could fill me up..."
Beyond the salt-grilled cockatrice skewer looms its seasoned twin. Both? Stomach might burst. Should've skipped the chicken set. Oh well—eat till he can't. Sin to waste this. With beer, maybe a bit more...