THE PHYSICALLY AND FLAVOR-MASSIVE, BEIJING SUPERMARKET FRIED CHICKEN

THE PHYSICALLY AND FLAVOR-MASSIVE, BEIJING SUPERMARKET FRIED CHICKEN

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SAVORY JUICES GREASED WITH RENDERED FAT RUSHED ARDENTLY OUT OF THE MEAT… A NOSTRIL FULL OF AROMA AS A MIXTURE OF CUMIN, CHILI, GARLIC, AND THE IRRESISTABLE SMELL OF CRISPED CHICKEN SKINS SENT ME INTO AN ANGRY SPIRAL OF REGRETS AND RESENTMENTS

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In AA they say, there are twelve steps to recovery.  Well, this fried chicken is my Step Nine. 

Specifically, if you (hopefully) aren’t familiar, this is a stage where the recoveree make direct amends to people whom they had harmed, wherever possible, as a part of the process to obtain emotional balance and closure.

So here I stand, almost two years into my recovery from six traumatic years in Beijing, I am ready to talk about this fried chicken.

To start from the beginning, I first saw these fried chickens inside a supermarket a few blocks away from our apartment in Beijing.  Calling that place a supermarket is a gross exaggeration whereas a glorified convenience store would be more appropriate, but for six long years, I passed by that supermarket about once a week on a conservative average, and I consistently dismissed the peculiar stall that was tucked in a dingy corner by the entrance with a sign that read, “Meixiang Fried Chicken“.

Peculiar indeed, not because there was a random fried chicken stall inside a suspicious convenience store, but that as ambiguous as it was, almost everyday around 3pm, there would be a line cued up at its greasy window, as long and meandering as my bafflement.  Typically, a line exceeding 15% of the total crowd-size stretching the entire block, is a mathematic proof good enough to send me into investigation, but feeling prejudice towards this entire city in general, I thought either this fried chicken was an understated treasure, or these people were out of their minds.

For six years, I went firmly with the latter.

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But in the last week before our departure, with no foreseeable intention to ever return, I thought, fine, you know, might as well.  Last chance to reaffirm, once and for all, that I was right.

So one afternoon, I stood in line, and ordered my fried chicken almost in a pique.  The first impression that came to mind was the sheer massiveness of its round and flattened body.  Instead of American-style fried chicken where the drumstick and thigh are two separate entities, this fried chicken was one entire chicken leg that was semi-butterflied and “opened up”.  Its dramatic entrance and the subtle cracking sensation it made even against the light pressure of my fingers, began to instill a sense of fear and self-doubt as my hunger surged in betrayal.  I took my first bite, and instantaneously, I succumbed.  Savory juices greased with rendered fat rushed ardently out of the meat in between the very thin but inarguably crispy, almost lacy coating.  Faster than I could say “Okay you win!“, a nostril full of aroma as a mixture of cumin, chili, garlic, and the irresistible smell of crisped chicken skins sent me into an angry spiral of regrets and resentments.   Cumin!, a designated spice for lamb in this part of the world, who knew, could work so marvelously with fried chickens!  Six years!, that it stood right under my nose and I had to have it right before I was going to lose it?

So a few days later when we packed up and left, I did what any emotionally imbalanced human being would do, I blocked it from my memory.  Not only that Beijing was the last thing I wanted to recall after practically fleeing the place, but I certainly didn’t need any mix-signals to remind me of anything that was undeniably decent about it.  Just like Batman does not need to accidentally see Joker picking up a garbage from the sidewalk and throwing it in the trashcan before he decisively pop a Batarang in his head.  Heroes don’t need that shit.

But two years passed, and perhaps sensing my mental stability slowly wobbling back, the idea of this fried chicken returned.  I retraced and recreated its magnificence based on memory and I was, once again, reminded how wrong I was to ignore it all these years.  Oh what a succulent and mouth-watering closure.  What a finger-licking Step Nine.

Dear Meixiang Fried Chicken, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry that I shut you out for six years before introducing myself, then again neglected you for another two years.  Would you forgive me?  You taste magnificent.  

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