by Mark Westphal
My grandfather taught me that the way to a woman’s heart was through a perfectly roasted chicken. I thoroughly agree with him now that I’ve had my fair share of roasted chickens devoured by many, many dates and potential girlfriends. But now, I think it’s safe to say, I want to revise my grandfather’s statement into something blunter and less poetic: Six pounds of beautiful, lemon-rubbed, rosemary-smelling, garlic-stuffed, greasy, fatty, salty, and delicious chicken is the only way to get a woman to compliment you, no matter who you are. I know it seems a little simplistic, but I tend to think that way. To me, cooking is simplistic.
After all, it was cooking that got me into those infamous dorm parties. When building B had those midterm gut-busters, I was there with the food. “Look at the Lord of the Kitchen over here,” they’d say. I was lucky our dorm had a kitchen, even though it was one of those you had to share with the entire floor; those cock-ups making their cup-o-noodles explode in the microwave or those packs of girls who never got cookies right no matter how many times they tried. I was there every day from 5:30 to 8:00; whether it was to knead bread, boil pasta, blanch vegetables in the chicken stock pot, or to make my now-famous roast chicken. I thought I was pretty damn courteous, too, as I never made fish or seafood in the shared kitchen that would stink up the dorm floor, or caused a fire or other unsightly incident that would draw more attention than somebody’s nose. All I had was a roasting pan, a stock pot, a squeeze bottle, a twenty-dollar chef’s knife, and a sauté pan, but I truly was Lord of the Kitchen.
The first time I introduced a lovely lady to the roast chicken was two weeks after school started. I was mostly new to the area and completely new to the school, so I found a sort of weird solace in cooking. I had decided to try out my grandfather’s recipe for roast chicken and I was quite successful. Although, instead of a chicken I used a Game Hen mostly because I didn’t want to thaw a 6-pound piece of poultry in the middle of the dorm floor where people could touch it. When I was starting to eat, I heard a voice: “That smells good.” It was a girl from one of my classes. Lisa Hargrove. She may not have looked pretty by the classical standards, but she sure talked well. I guess her eyes helped too.
I took a bite before answering her. “Yeah, and it tastes good, too. Want some?” I guess I asked that thinking it would be sad if I ate it all by myself.
But, sure enough, she said, “Yeah, sure if that’s alright with you.”
“I asked, didn’t I?” I handed her a leg. Always a good piece to start with. I remember her tasting it and immediately sitting down. I saw in a commercial once where people were tasting a burger so good that they just had to sit down, and the more I cook the more I see that coming true.
“Wow, this is really good.” She said. “And you do this in this shitty little kitchen?”
“Yeah. It gets the job done.” I said. “I don’t need a big kitchen to make something like this.”
“May I have some more?”
“Yeah, alright.” I said. I suppose I was grateful for her company after all. I gave her a wing piece. She asked where my room is, what classes I’m in, what my major is, but I stopped listening after she told me she liked my food, and just answered her tacitly: I’m at room B369, I’m in every class you’re not, and my major is English fucking Literature. None of these things were true, of course, but I didn’t want any random people asking too many questions about my personal life. This made her feel a little offended.
“What is wrong with you?” she interjected loudly.
“Nothing.” I said. “I told you the truth. You’re not in any of my classes and I major in English literature.” I paused. “It may not exactly be the full truth, but I like to speak my mind, you know?” She calmed down. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Lisa. What’s yours?”
“Ronnie.” I said. I go by many names. In my various classes I tell my professors to call me Phil, Justin, Marcus, Ronnie, and Dan. My name didn’t matter to me then, and it still doesn’t now.
To make a long story short, I made a friend that evening. That friend introduced me to many other friends, and those friends all made me Lord of the Kitchen.
Now, for the story on how I was dethroned.
Fast forward to senior year. I was fresh off Academic probation and a whole summer of working in a kitchen getting foot blisters and hand burns. I was over the whole cooking thing by then, but I still occasionally dabbled during the school year, making soda bread to knead out the frustration from my classes, crushing avocados into a tomato salsa for margarita nights. When my grades went up by the end of the fall semester, I suddenly had in my mind that I could use more free time for cooking; I hadn’t made that roast chicken in quite a while, after all.
My room had a kitchen by now, but my roommates always left it dirty, and I was sick of cleaning it over and over again. I went to the shared kitchen in the B building freshman dorms, the old chicken-roasting grounds. I was desperate for the flavor of the roast chicken, I didn’t care how long I had to wait to dig my teeth into it. I even brought a clumsy bag of vegetables destined for roasting, just to add the flair and legitimacy that my roast chicken needed. To draw a crowd.
Little did I know there was already a crowd. It was Lisa, wearing a white apron, serving what looked like roast chicken. I was heartbroken, but as I hung my head and walked away from the scene, she waved me down: “Ronnie! Ronnie! Oh my god, it’s so good to see you!”
“Oh, hi Lisa,” I said.
“Wow, I didn’t ever think you would come back here. I thought you were in the nice, expensive dorms by now.”
“I am, but I hate it there.” I replied, then asked what she was making like I didn’t have a sense of smell or sight that already told me the answer.
“Oh, well it’s funny you ask that,” she smirked, “I tried to make that roast chicken you fed me a few years ago. Please try it and see how I did.”
Now this wasn’t something I wanted to do at all. “No, it’s ok. I’m ok. I’ll try C building.”
“No, no, no, no, no please you have to. I want your opinion,” she insisted with that stupid, perky voice she had. I don’t know why I just stood there while she got a piece of the chicken to feed me, but I did, and as she handed it to me and I tasted it, my saliva churned like a stormy ocean in my mouth, eagerly dissolving the meat that it so desperately wanted. I hadn’t taught her how to do this, and I could tell this was her first time. I closed my eyes, briefly, to focus on what I was eating.
“Yeah, you did ok,” I said. “Maybe a little more herbs and less salt. I really gotta go, Lisa.”
“Um, ok bye,” she said.
As I walked away, I knew the terrible truth. I knew that I was dethroned from my master position as the Lord of the Kitchen. I just didn’t want to tell her how good hers was.
