In a breach of equine etiquette the Royal Mounted Police drove me, in-a-car-drove-me, to the Wisconsin River where we stopped at what appeared to be a quaint-ish bar and grill for lunch. I’ll eat anything and this place didn’t look like the type of place that’d serve anchovies so I felt safe. Well, safe-ish. The fellow diners were a mix of angry gun nuts and flannel shirted women with “coexist” bumperstickers. I wasn’t exactly sure which of the two groups was going to indignantly confront me first and on what grounds.
Anyhoo, I ordered the buffalo mac n cheese. I wasn’t sure if, like the menu suggested, it was sandwich, and not wanting to cause a scene (and thereby incite some sort of riot) I discreetly asked the waitress to clarify. It was not but she asked if I wanted crispy chicken and, again, not wishing to inflame any raw nerves, I said sure.
The “chicken” had the appearance of deep fried sponge and the texture of Cap’n Crunch. “Mm,” I said, “crispy!” with smile when she asked how everything was. I ate it because, well, I’ll eat anything. It wasn’t half bad. And also I wanted to get outta Dodgeville without an incident involving guns or Subarus.
