The Chicken Diaries

This is me and Kiyan, fellow chicken lover. I met Kiyan last night on the bus platform at St. Clair West station. He was sitting on the wooden bench with several grocery bags open beside him, eating feverishly. Inside one of the bags was a roast chicken, and he was pulling strips of meat off with his hands and slapping them between pieces of torn baguette before shoving them into his mouth. I could not resist meeting a person I recognized as my doppelganger, someone who shares a primal need for poultry. When I motioned to him that I wanted to sit, he moved some of his parcels aside to make room for me, all without interrupting his consumption. I said, pointing to the bird: “That is my absolute favourite thing to eat in the world,” and without hesitation, he asked me if I wanted some. He must have sensed my sincerity, recognized a fellow compatriot. How could I refuse?

As we ate, we told chicken stories. We shared memories of past chicken feasts. I told him of the divine combination of roast chicken and hummus, along with my Death Row Chicken meal, which he heartily agreed would be his last request as well. We identified our favourite parts of the chicken (he the drumsticks, which he had already eaten; me the oysters on the back, which he graciously shared). He proclaimed his love of Swiss Chalet gravy, only to be intrigued by my tales of St. Hubert, a rare find in this province, and their more subtle, savoury sauce.

When the bus arrived, we moved our meal inside, and continued talking and eating. The woman across from us offered napkins, which proved woefully inadequate in wiping off the grease that dripped off our hands. When my stop arrived, I left, reluctantly. I felt sad knowing that this encounter was rare in our neat, reserved, business-as-usual city. Kiyan, thanks not just for the chicken, but for reminding me that sometimes it's worth getting a bit messy to enjoy the things you love.