The “chicken pops” are beautiful little things—a Southeast Asian play on buffalo wings. Two bowls arrive at the table. One is heaped with the drumettes, darkly caramelized and glistening, each tiny piece artfully frenched. The other is starkly empty, ready to be filled with cleanly scrubbed bones. I fill the empty bowl faster than I had anticipated. One after the other in rapid succession, I’ve sucked the limbs free of every edible morsel, unable to slow down until they’re all gone. I’m now looking at a miniature mass grave, smacking my lips, and I realize my pucker is numb, perhaps slightly swollen. My tongue is tingling.
My waiter walks by and notices that I’m curiously fondling my face, and he laughs. “Happens every time,” he says. Continue reading
