| 01 March 2010
All I wanted were some wings. Some enough-spice-to-warrant-my-eating-with-my-fingers-and-getting-sauce-embedded-in-my-cuticles, sloppy wings.
The hunger began whispering in my ear sometime in December. As my belly and rectum was recovering from the curries I had in Manchester, my tastebuds already craved more spicy goodness. Jen had brought me to a great wing place in Halifax, so I decided to wait until we got back to Canada, and bring Sam along to sample some seriously tasty wings. So after 2 weeks visiting my parents, we took a 6 hour train ride to Halifax, with visions of happy, wingless chickens clucking around in my head. We dropped our luggage off at her apartment, and were immediatly out the door to head downtown. (Right about now would be a good time to mention Sam didn't have any ID with her and her passport was currently in the UK at the Chinese embassy. Which is the cornerstone if an entirely different story.) We arrive at the pub around 8pm and as we climb the stairs, we realize they are asking for ID at the door. Not being in the mood for any hassle -considering I still get checked at 31, we decide to just go the next afternoon. No wings tonight... So Sunday at 3:30 we take our seats eager to get the menu so we can start our wing bonanza. The waitress comes by as she hands out the menus she says "got your id's on you?" "We're not even drinking! I'm 31, my sister is 26, and we both have ID." And I'm sure as hell not dating someone under 19. "It doesn't matter - if the liqour commission came in right now I'd lose my job." So as we left, I threw an evil glare and a snarl at the 4 year old we passed on the way out. He must have had ID. Apparently the rule must be that you don't HAVE to be of age to go to the bar, as long as you've got identification on you. Of course. WINGS DENIED AGAIN. We still needed to eat, so we went to the pub next door. ID'd? Nope. And the beer I decided to drink was almost as bitter as I was. So it looked like the only other opportunity to satiate my unyeilding hunger for the pleasant poultry appendages would be the following Saturday, as Sam's passport was to arrive on Friday, thus giving her the all important "ID". And guess what, Friday came and went, but her passport didn't. As I sobbed uncontrollably in the warm embrace of the family cat, a ray of hope unvieled itself. My aunt Linda suggested that Jen and I go for wings and she and Sam would go watch a chick flick that they both had shown interest in. So how did I spend Valentine's Day? Elbows deep in 2 pounds of the most delicious, near orgasmic, satisfying wings I've had in recent memory - while my girlfriend watched a film with Linda. And the icing on the cake? We didn't even get fucking ID'd...