Crunchy Chicken
"...Ah."
"Excuse me? Are you all right?"
"Ah, sorry. That, chicken... meat?"
"Cockatrice! It has a chewier texture than regular chicken—"
...Wrong. I can't focus on work. It happens sometimes. When I crave something insanely.
Normally, I can hold back and move on, but occasionally there's this instinct that overpowers even reason and logic.
"...Are you really okay?"
"Ah. Sorry. So..."
...Of all things, the sample's chicken. Driving me mad.
"Chicken..."
Desire is hardest to resist when it's right there. Craving something expensive is easier to shrug off. Wallet's tight, last time it disappointed a bit, reservations are booked solid... I rattle off excuses to my instincts, and they concede, 'Nothing to be done.'
But chicken, pizza, burgers? Impossible to fight. Instincts counter: Just reach out, spare a moment, a little pocket change.
In that sense, this craving is brutal.
"I want old-style whole chicken piled high with onions...!"
Familiar flavors are terrifying. The ones you can grab anytime, even more so.
Onions stacked thick, sauce slathered old-style whole chicken. I want it so bad! No resisting. How are humans this frail?
"Why, on a day like this, does no place sell it?"
Checked dozens of chicken joints—no onion whole chicken. Green onion chickens, sweet-sauced ones everywhere, but why no onion whole chicken?
Maybe I overlooked it. Fixation narrows vision to a pinhole.
"Any place selling it as a side... Ah."
...Of all things. Just as my instincts whisper, 'Maybe give up?'—a menu board catches my eye.
Onion Whole Chicken. My god. It's here!
Relief floods in, bittersweet. Found what I crave. But why right before surrender?
"No way I can pass it up now."
But joy surges, washing away the gripe. Fine. Eat here today.
"Welcome."
Tables empty. Impeccably clean, but rags plopped casually.
...A dud? Clean's good, but haphazard rags scream half-hearted owner—or lazy one.
"Sit wherever you're comfortable."
"Um, you got chicken ready?"
"Yes! Right here!"
Ah, saved. Kitchen area's receipt wall. Counter packed with takeout chickens.
Of course. Chicken's for delivery, not dine-in. Backlog in a spotless shop? Tasty spot confirmed.
I sit, scan around. Cockatrice in Hell, Dramatic O'Brien Fries, award-winning Cardrian-style chicken... Poster overload.
Too many varieties usually a turnoff, but a packed menu in a popular joint? Worth a shot.
"Ready to order?"
"Ah, uh... Onion whole chicken, please."
"Boneless okay?"
"Yes."
Boneless old-style? Odd combo. Doesn't matter. Onion chicken's all I need.
Wipe hands with wet napkin. Napkins branded, salt and pepper shakers spotless and clear. Well-kept.
"...The emptiness. Makes me antsy."
Tables aplenty, me solo. Feels like I rented the place—heart fluttering. TV off, silence broken by...
Chicken frying. Sizzle of batter crisping, that smell. My inner beast thrashes wildly.
Hold on. Coming soon.
"Your onion whole chicken."
"Thanks."
...Insane. That sheen, that form, that aroma. Whole chicken thin-battered fried, deboned, onions piled sky-high, sauce drenched.
Fresh out: batter glistening, juices dribbling, onions crisp. Spicy? Nah, must taste amazing.
"Here goes..."
Chopsticks spear saucy onions first. Test the heat. Crunch, crunch. Sticky sauce's savory-sweet, thin mayo's silky oil. Fresh onion sweetness bursts through. No spice. Refreshing—palate clears like spring water, beyond mere salad.
Ha. Mad. If onions slay, the chicken below...
But verify: pick meat. White edges to slight yellow overcook. Oil infused? Thin batter crunches via chopsticks. Texture alone satisfies.
Bite. "...Mmm."
Crispy, chewy fried chicken bliss. Not standard fried snap—like shattering thin candied sugar. Slightly overdone, tough chew. Thin batter tips balance.
But deeper chews release infused chicken oil. Umami distinct from juices. Mild yet profoundly chicken.
With onions? Heavenly. Expectations soar.
"Mmm...!"
Expectation shattered—in the best way. Better than dreamed. Onion atop chicken: meat savor first, batter crunch, onion zing, sweet sauce crown!
Overcooked whiff, oily batter shreds mouth. Onions erase it all.
Worried onions muted? Needless. Raw sweetness amplifies.
Could devour endlessly!
Reverse: onions base, chicken top. Wrap-style bite. Zest first, sauce sweet, chewy meat, distant crunch.
Ha. Astonishing. Same stuff, worlds apart. Hot meat, cool onion—vivid contrast. They yield, synergize.
Instincts beam. Wise to obey.
"Mm."
...Savored too long? Chicken cooled, turning dry. Onions/sauce chill it fast.
Onions warmed, mushy. Batter soggy—hard, not crisp.
First magic vanished. But tastier now! Fresh wave!
Mushy onions ooze sticky juice. No issue—sauce prepped me. Double stick, double sweet.
Cooled meat fibrous, new umami blooms. Chews shred fibers, dancing on tongue.
Onion encore. Hard + mush. Not soft/crisp/crunch, but novel. Still snaps, sauced into new relish!
"Ah, shoot."
...Ratio off. Onion mountain vanished.
Quiet munching? Overdid onions?
No sweat. Sauce galore. Dunk remnants.
Mmm. Sauce overload. Umami heavy.
But delicious. Body-straining bliss.
Not solo. Grab salt, pepper—seasoned salt corner hack.
Dip clean bits. Salty. Umami surges proportionally.
Perfect! One dish, infinite flavors!