Although our violently intoxicated state was threatening to blow our cover, we felt we could hold it together for Hopocan Gardens, our second Barberton chicken restaurant.We loudly staggered into the family-style, wood-paneled restaurant, where they decided to seat us right in the middle of the restaurant. For some reason, everyone kept staring at us. Maybe it was because we were out-of-towners.
We ordered the chicken basket, which was mildly disappointing. At Hopocan Gardens, the chicken skin was taut and supple, but a tad too oily: the skin of a masturbating teenager. On the other hand, the meat inside was flavorful and moist, like the warm crotch of a Georgia MILF. Less appetizing was the chicken paprikash, a stew filled with large dumplings made of soggy newspaper, vinyl caulking, and hair. It tasted like chicken paprikass.
"What makes Barberton chicken so special?" Kirk asked our young, attractive waitress, after she brought yet another round of drinks to the table.
This is when she dropped the bomb on us. "They fry it in lard."
"No kidding." This was unbelievably funny to me. "Can you bring out some of the lard?"
"We're restaurant reviewers," Jay told her, which came dangerously close to revealing our identities. "We're here to review your restaurant."
"I don't know..." she hesitated.
"We must taste your lard," I insisted. "Just a small bowl."
"Because we're reviewing your restaurant for a web site," Jay added.
She paused. "Let me see what I can do." She went back to the kitchen, then came back out a few minutes later with a large dollop of lard. It was white and greasy, like fatty ice cream.
"Excellent," I said. "Jay, you must taste the lard."
Jay put the lard in his mouth, and there was audible groaning from not only our table, but most of the patrons around us. Laughing uproariously, we toasted Jay on his excellent lard-consuming abilities, and had another round of drinks.
"Can my daughter take a picture with you?" a middle-aged woman asked me, escorting her ten-year-old to the table.
I don't know why she chose a loud, drunk guy, but I guess people have a sixth sense when it comes to restaurant critics, or maybe she recognized me from the Internet. We all went out into the parking lot and posed for pictures:
While posing for the final photo, the girl kicked me in the ass, so hard that I fell down and yelped in pain. "You HUSSY!" I shouted.
Her parents, who had found all this very charming, now took her away from me. "Let's go," they said, glaring at me angrily.
"What does 'hussy' mean?" I heard the little girl asking as they escorted her away.
We went back inside, quaffed another few beers, then made our way out to the car. By this time, I was not very steady on my feet, and somehow crushed my nuts on the bumper of a car. "OWW!" I screamed in agony. "I, A PROFESSIONAL RESTAURANT REVIEWER, JUST MASHED MY BALLS!"
We were blending in pretty well with the locals, I thought. But that was before Barberton chicken restaurant #3. Stay tuned.