Adjusting for the Curve

Best possible outcome: plans go astray because of an unexpected friend and yard bird.

I had nothing but good intentions tonight: a foreign film and music from California.

But you know how it goes when you're trolling Facebook and something catches your eye and all of a sudden you have new information to consider.

Yea, that's how I was caught off guard by shiny things.

Okay, they weren't really shiny, just fried.

The Roosevelt was advertising tonight as fried chicken night until 6:30.

That didn't leave much room for error, so I got myself together and headed east for dinner.

Early as I was, I walked in to find a couple of friend already knuckle deep in fried chicken.

Technically speaking, this is where the evening took a sharp left turn.

I joined them, ordering a glass of Del Fosse Cuvee Laurent, the Chambourcin blend I'd fallen for on my last visit.

Just as I was ordering my fried chicken, another couple I know arrived and took the seats to my right.

They turned out to be Roosevelt fried chicken veterans, having taken advantage of the first fried chicken night.

Naturally, they were curious when my order came out, eager to see if it was as appealing as last time.

They immediately noticed that the chicken is now boneless but seemed mollified by the presence of the spicy honey glaze.

We all took deep breaths.

While I dove into my plate o' fried chicken, I heard tales of lives regained, businesses sold and happier people.

Best line randomly overheard: "We're a fart joke kind of couple."

There's no way to even respond to that.

There was discussion of a new Roosevelt t-shirt and a suggestion was made that the ideal t-shirt would have an outline of bartender T's beard.

You have to admit, it's not a bad idea.

The fried chicken was superb with a well-seasoned crust and just the right amount of spicy honey to provide sweet heat.

By the time I finished, my fingers were as sticky as a toddler's after his first pancake.

Someone made the foolhardy suggestion that the Roosevelt should do fried chicken on a regular basis but several of us voted that down.

No one should have access to this chicken day in and day out if we ever hope to win the war on obesity.

What I mean is, thank god they had sold out of fried chicken by 6:15 to save people from themselves.

My friend's beloved eventually left her to me and went home so we used the unexpected opportunity to do the girltalk thing.

We'll just say Cuvee Laurent greased the wheels and leave it at that.

Soon there was an adorable and androgynous couple sitting nearby and when their food arrived, my nose followed.

Apparently my sniffing of their vicinity made my interest in their dinner obvious, because one of them raved about the lamb shank and inquired, "Want a germ-covered bite?" and tore off a piece of meat to hand to me.

My friend returned from the bathroom at that moment, mortified at my behavior and asking, "Are you mooching food from those people?"

I prefer to think that I was using my olfactory senses to appreciate their food and besides, they offered.

By the way, the bite was delicious, germy or not.

After debating Venus and Mars with my friend, we ordered a slice of peanut butter pie to share, my first time trying this dessert.

Rich and obscenely sweet by the end, it was part of the currency I was using tonight to buy a ticket to go to hell in a hand basket.

At one point, my friend looked at her phone, realized the time and said, "Ooh, sorry, I made you miss your show!" but her voice really didn't sound too sorry.

Everything happens for a reason, Grasshopper.

Besides, perhaps this was the best possible outcome for us both.

It certainly worked for those of us with sticky fingers.