Friday, February 20, 2004

The military base will have to wait, gentle reader, because hunger drove us mad yesterday–and straight to downtown Evanston. The restaurant of choice was Koi, a chic new addition to the Dining Capital’s list of eateries. The Brunch Critic, Carmen Sandiego, and I wandered into an evening full of serviceable food, fine conversation, and tasteful atmosphere.

Perhaps the word I’m searching for is “ambiance,” but since I don’t know what that means, I’ll just say that Koi was classier than Panda Express, maybe even two Panda Expresses pasted together. I mean, management saw fit to give its patrons chopstick rests that suspiciously resembled rocks, and Brunch Critic celebrated this by promptly dropping his rock into the tea.

One other thing I vividly recall, besides finding some bones in General Tao’s chicken, was how Carmen decoded the mysterious language bantered about by a few nearby Frenchmen. They were apparently making sweeping generalizations about the eating habits of Americans, but unbeknownst to them Carmen commands knowledge of eight languages, French included. To these gentlemen I say, “Oh, le shame!”

I’m starting a new paragraph, but that doesn’t mean my thoughts will be any more coherent. I’m not here to review the restaurant. Rather, I need to share with you an epiphany I had when I crunched on some chicken bones. I think the keyword here is expectation. When you settle down to enjoy some boneless chicken pieces, chomping down on bones is akin to a culinary bitchslap. It’s like General Tao went to Jimmy Dean’s farm, stole a chicken or two, forgot to cook them, and then proceeded to dip them in his signature sauce. The good General salutes you and says, “Here, bite.” And then he slaps you upside the head with his riding crop.

That said, I think there’s a market for uncooked chicken. You’ve already got sushi, right? Why not chickenshi? Vealshi? Spamshi? Artificial crabshi? There’s a real market for this shit, I’m telling you. Man, sometimes I’m so focused I scare myself. Boo.