Chips With That




Voltaire wasn't scared of getting deep.







Kicking back with homeys on one such occasion, V-dawg even ventured to deem that



the perfect is the enemy of the good



Was he on crack? No. I think what Voltaire was getting at is the idea that perfection is unattainable, and time is wasted in the eternal strive to achieve it. Beauty lies in the shadowlands, within the spectrum of life's imperfections. When you spy some slick motherfucker in a club looking tanned and lean in a lowcut V, odds on chicks don't fancy him. He's trying too hard. Odds on he's got no dancefloor flex. Besides, no straight man looks that good. What i'm trying to say is that when you turn the oven up too hot, shit gets overcooked. The art is in the slow-roasting. 


Back to Voltaire. When a couple of days back a raging hunger caught me off-guard and started mercilessly beating an african rhythm against the insides of my stomach wall, the sight of the only place within crawling distance made my heart sink north-atlantic steamliner style.






I wandered in and surveyed the chicken situ. Respect, dudes were good to their word. There was without any doubt a monumental strive for perfection on show. Breasts and nuggets gleamed like breaded demi-gods buckling my knees and hoovering saliva from the side of my mouth. But something wasn't right. The chicken looked so good. Too good. The quality of this chicken had absolutely no place in a mangy fast food outlet on New Rd in south central Whitechapel. This was not what i had come for. The chicken had fallen foul of Voltaire's aphorism and in being too perfect, had just become bad.


I approached the counter and picking up a flyer, tried to explain to the man what Voltaire had said, referencing the sign outside the front of the shop, remonstrating that his business model was a farce, his selling point was fraudulent, that there could exist no such thing as Perfect Fried Chicken. 23 minutes later he'd gathered as much to ask me whether i wanted Voltaire with chips and drink, or just on its own.



I told him to hold the Voltaire, swiped the Coke and fries, and got out of there.



Chips were decent.







Moral of the story? 




Think of something better to blog about.





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