Jeff Phillips: The Rooster Purge on the Spit

Drinkers with Writing Problems

Sorry if I was out of commission yesterday. My stomach was feeling a bit off. We went to a party at The Belly and that chef, Chubb Champo, had just got back in town; he’d taken a trip into the rural cornfields of Illinois and came back with some spoils. Spoils. That might be the best way to describe what he brought back. It was real important that he throw a dinner party immediately.

As Chubb served us through the window of that decrepit food truck, his name written in soap on the windshield, he told us about his dish in that booming voice of his. There were probably a hundred of us gathered around it, the word had spread quickly that morning. What he had cooked up did smell amazing: citrusy, with a peppery kick that activated your nostrils further, and it overpowered the usual hint of dusty brick…

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