On Saturday it was seventy degrees for the first time since the beginning of October. That’s almost a full six months. The energy in the city was wild. The next day a low pressure system brought the temperature back down. On a rainy Sunday, Etta and I went to the late afternoon showtime for Noah, directed by Darren Aronofsky. I had listened to the podcast On Point with Tom Ashbrook about the meaning of the Great Flood, and hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. I can stop thinking about it now: we should of gone to see the Grand Hotel Budapest per the recommendation of Mrs. Yak and Aunty.
After the movie, Etta recommended we pick up Honey Butter Fried Chicken: we had both heard good things. It’s funny, the Chicago food critics who decry the saturation of new chicken restaurants. Newsflash: people like to eat chicken. And I don’t mind paying more, say high twenties for 8 pieces, because I know Honey Butter Fried Chicken is getting well-treated chickens. I want my chickens happy alive, delicious after death, and Honey Butter does that. I thought the drumstick would be the main event, but the juicy thigh stole the show with its bonelessness.
The sides were good too. I really like the spicy mac and cheese (spiral noodles). The schmaltzy (chicken fat) mashed potatoes were sickeningly schmaltzy, in a good way. The kale slaw cut the schmaltz back. Still, I could handle at most 2 chicken pieces in a serving. I also ate Honey Butter’s salty cookie and brownie: I love the salt with the sweet, so I was a big fan. That night they were out of dump cake. This is rich food, even before the honey butter goes on. And it goes on.
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