The other day my friend and I ventured out to take in all that New York City has to offer by way of its culinary institutions. With such choices as Per Se, WD-50, Blue Hill, Chipotle the options were endless so long as our wallets could afford such delectable treasures. Of course with both of us to be wed soon – not to each other – we had to pull the purse strings a little tighter so we decided on a small little place named Bonchon.
Bonchon is a Korean fried chicken restaurant that has multiple locations around the city and the only thing Korean about it is the name. I don’t understand what they mean by “Korean fried chicken” it’s literally fried chicken with some kind of spices or something – what do I know I don’t have the pallet of a 4-star executive chef, mine is more along the lines of someone who constantly burns the roof of their mouth with DiGiorno pizzas. Which, by the way, can be delivered if you go to your local grocer and they offer such services. That sound? That was the sound of your mouse clicking out of this page without you even noticing.
Just when I thought we selected a great place I get a call from said friend who says,
Him: Shit! I read the number wron – Oh, hey! so Bonchon is closed maybe we should –
Me: Yeah, we will find another place.
Him: …just call it a night.
Me: Alright, I’ll be up there soon.
Him: If I’m not there let’s just resch –
Me: I’m outside.
Him: I’ll be right down.
Off we went to find a new source of food to shove in our faces and apparently something from the Orient is what we both fancied. We end up outside a restaurant to which he made the slightest hint served ramen and I was inside faster than it takes Joan Rivers to make whatever kind of weird smile she makes now with all that botox injected in her 100 year old face.
Once inside we are asked if we have a reservation, which we didn’t, and which we apparently didn’t need one because we were LITERALLY one table of – I’m trying to count them in my head – three that were occupied.
Good thing we called ahead.
The menus arrive and we immediately see why no one makes reservations there. It was foreign to us, the food was literally foreign to us. We are ignorant Americans looking for some Americanize, bastardized version of the food served in your home land! Feed our fat mouths with what we want!
“I’ll take a Diet Pepsi, please.”
Despite the fact that my friend and I were staring at this menu like two deer in headlights, I was parched and wanted a cold, refreshing beverage to hide the sweat forming around my brow due to the fact that we were embarrassed that we had to tell these people that we wanted to give them none of our business.
The soda arrives and I look across to my friend.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress said.
At that moment we spring up and run out of there like two kids stealing a piece of gum from a convenience store clerk.
That’s what I wanted to do in my head, that’s not what actually happened.
Here’s what went down.
Me: You do it.
Him: No, you! You’re the one who rushed in here and took a seat before I even had the chance to agree with this place.
Waitress: Are you two done fighting?
Me: Yes, uh, but we’re not going to eat here because, well…
Waitress: Well, what?
Me: I didn’t think that sentence through, that’s all I got.
Waitress: What are you saying?
Me: We don’t want your shitty non-ramen food in our mouths.
Waitress: But our noodles are from the finest of lands. Some say they are the inventor of the noodles.
Me: Wow! Noodles from China?
Waitress: No, Canada.
At this point the conversation got weird and we – my friend and I – may or may not have had to battle some ninjas in a test of strength in order to gain our freedom, you be the judge.
So finally I ask for the bill and the waitress says, “Don’t worry about it.” I say to her that I asked for the soda, you came over and opened it so I would like to pay for it. She says, “please, it’s fine” and then takes the soda away from me! So now the question really is – did she drink my soda?