I had a guest in town this weekend so my local friend took us to Los Angeles. We did the normal things, i.e. ate some burritos, cruised down Santa Monica Boulevard singing the eponymous Sheryl Crow song, went celebrity hunting (mission: unsuccessful), checked out the Walk of Fame and tried not to get shot.
But we also did something extraordinary. We went to an eatery that had culinary delights beyond our wildest dreams. I have but three and a half words for you: Roscoe's Chicken 'n Waffles.
Before we entered this gastronomical mecca, I tried to imagine what was in store for us. Chicken-flavored waffles? Waffle-stuffed chicken? Chicken-shaped waffles? As the waitress passed out menus she scootched us down the ratty leather booth with her sizable derrière and asked, "What's poppin' babies?" The name stitched on her uniform read Mama Ella.
I ordered the obvious choice. One piece of chicken. One waffle. Stat.
I tucked into my treat and felt as if joy fireworks were erupting in my mouth. What a supreme idea. Breakfast and dinner. Grains and meat. Carbs and protein. Sweet and savory. Delicious and nutritious. It was, by far, the best part of LA and the only reason I will return if given the chance.
Dearest Nugget, I must inform you with exuberance that Minneapolis (1st street to be precise) has a similar outlet known affectionately as Chicken & Waffles. We shall go.
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