Imagine you’re on a date with some hunk and he takes you to dinner at a fancy-smancy place with like, eels and snails and broccoli and stuff.
Yuck! What a nightmare.
Luckily, there’s your ol' standby: chicken fingers. Yes, usually it’s on the kid’s menu, but if you ask really nicely and maybe offer to pay a little more, places might oblige you. We did just that at several of the fanciest-smanciest restaurants in town and we’re here to tell you how they were.
This French-Spanish fusion spot is best known for its pan-seared foie gras with mustard seeds and green onions. But that sounds gross, we want chicken fingers! Their chicken fingers came with a side of ketchup and this white stuff that wasn’t mayo but was kind of like mayo. We didn’t try it. Anyway, the fingers were very crunchy, if a little greasy, and their coating used a lot of pepper, which we found a smidge too spicy. Pretty good, overall.
This place was really weird about the fact that we wanted chicken fingers. We had to hold our breath until someone ran out to Safeway to get us some. We had drank seven bottles of sake at this point, so I think they were a little afraid of what we might do. Anyway, it was all right. I don’t know what brand they got, kind of tasted like Tyson’s, but they get points for effort.
Chicken fingers rubbery and sad. Maureen, who is the most sensitive among us, broke down in tears. She left her husband last night and didn’t tell him why. We all knew why, though. The fingers made her spiral into a depression so deep that it left her incapable of loving and trusting another human being ever again. In spite of the rubberiness though, the breading on the chicken was pretty good, reminded us of Burger King.
goose + crane
We asked for chicken fingers and they gave us chicken nuggets. Nuggets. Everyone knows that’s not the same: a chicken “nugget” is much shorter than a human finger, which is where “chicken fingers” get their name. We almost disqualified them immediately, but then we decided to give them a try. The nuggets were undeniably nugget-y, but they were very flavorful, if a little greasy. Nothing to dunk them in, though, so it was a little like intercourse with no lube: fine, but could have been much more pleasurable.
We saved the fanciest for last. The chicken fingers here were delectable, divine, ambrosial. If the Greek gods were still alive today (they’re dead, right? Most of them?), this is what they would gorge themselves on in the marble halls of Mount Olympus. Each golden brown finger was gargantuan, as long as a finger but as thick as a horse’s neck. They were perfectly tender and crispy and came with vats of dunkin’ sauce, normal kinds, like ketchup, honey mustard, ranch. We are still eating them now. We got cheesecake to go, too, and alternating bites between fried chicken and cheesecake comes highly recommended. We find ourselves weeping for joy.
Remember Maureen? The fingers have imbued her with new life and she has kissed Derick with honey mustard lips. They are now dry humping on the office couch. Pretty gross, but I guess I’m happy for them. Yes, we understand that we likely die soon after this orgy of the senses, but do not weep for us. It is the most blissful death we could ask for, consuming the food that has stood by us in the most trying of culinary circumstances: chicken fingers.