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Overview
Boy Meets Bird.
Boy Gets Bird.
Boy Loses Bird
An Urban Folktale.
One day in the dead of winter, New York Times restaurant critic William Grimes looked out the window into his backyard in Queens and saw a chicken, jet black with a crimson comb. Wherever it had come from, it showed no sign of leaving, and it quickly made a place for itself among the society of resident stray cats. Before long, the chicken became the Chicken, and it began to arouse not only Grimes's protective impulses but also his curiosity. He discovered that chickens were domesticated first as fighters, not food; that egg-laying is triggered by exposure to light; that chickens were a fashion statement in Victorian days. He began to probe the mysteries of gallinaceous behavior, learning to distinguish a dust bath from a death dance and how to cater to his guest's eclectic palate. And when the Chicken began to repay his hospitality with five or six custom-laid eggs per week, Grimes had an answer to the age-old conundrum of which came first: the Chicken.
And then one day, obeying some bird-brained logic of its own -- or perhaps the victim of fowl play -- the Chicken vanished, leaving Grimes eggless but with this funny, enlightening, and heartwarming tale to tell.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466822139 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 03/25/2002 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 96 |
| File size: | 595 KB |
About the Author
William Grimes is the restaurant critic for The New York Time and the author, most recently, of Straight Up or On the Rocks: The Story of the American Cocktail. He lives in Astoria, Queens, with his wife and assorted stray cats -- but, alas, no chicken.
William Grimes was the restaurant critic for The New York Times from 1999 to 2003. He is the author of Appetite City (NPP, 2009), Straight Up or On the Rocks (NPP, 2001) and My Fine Feathered Friend (NPP, 2002), and the coauthor of The New York Times Guide to New York City Restaurants 2004.
Read an Excerpt
One day in the dead of winter, I looked out my back window and saw a chicken. It was jet black with a crimson comb, and in classic barnyard fashion, it was scratching and pecking and clucking as it moved across the tiny rectangle of my lawn. It was, in every way, a normal chicken, except for one thing. It was in the middle of New York City.
I looked closer, blinked a few times, and shrugged off the apparition. Birds come and go in New York. Usually they're pigeons, not chickens, but like other birds, this one had wings and would probably use them. Or so I thought.
Night fell. Day broke. I looked out the back window and the chicken was still there, large as life. A little larger, actually. It looked content. It certainly showed no sign of wanting to move on. I sensed that this fly-by-night visitor was thinking about becoming a permanent resident. New York, the city of immigrants, was getting another one.
It was a fine-looking bird. Tired and poor, perhaps, but no wretched refuse. This chicken was huge, and it had obviously been eating well. Its black feathers shone, giving off a greenish purple iridescence in bright sunlight. Its beady brownish orange eyes had a healthy sparkle. They looked like the glass eyes on a stuffed toy animal. Its legs, thick and strong, supported it like two heavy-duty tripods. In Russian folklore, there's a witch, Baba Yaga, who lives deep in the forest. Her home is a hut that rests on chicken legs. I'd always found that description puzzling. Now I understood. Two chicken legs would be ideal for supporting a hut. These particular legs gave the chicken a lurching, confident gait. With its chest puffed out, it paced self-importantly, like a mid-level bureaucrat. As far as I could tell, it had nothing special to do, but it did nothing with a grand flourish. One moment it looked overweight, pompous, and slightly ridiculous. The next it seemed rather imposing, a dashing black figure on a mysterious mission.
It was the right bird in the wrong spot. The chicken may be a domestic creature, but it's not meant for the city, and that's exactly where this country cousin had come to roost. Astoria, my neighborhood, is just across the East River from Manhattan — only three or four subway stops from Bloomingdale's, in fact. It's a quiet, workaday sort of place, with three-story apartment buildings and small houses in two styles: square boxes covered in aluminum siding and brick "Tudor" houses with steeply pitched slate roofs. My own house is one of the square boxes, with gray siding and a narrow walkway on either side. With outspread arms, you can easily touch my house and the one next to it. There's very little about the house, or the area, that would entice a chicken. Even humans find it hard to get excited about Queens, New York's least charismatic borough. Except for Staten Island. Thank God for Staten Island.
Anyway, nothing much happens in Astoria. People go to work, then come home. They wash their cars, leave Christmas and Halloween decorations up for months on end, and spend far too much time looking for parking. Nancy, my wife, once dropped her wallet on the sidewalk. Someone returned it. When she looked inside, the money was still there. The only really shocking event that I can recall in my twenty years in Astoria is the day a deranged cabdriver walked into his bank, withdrew thirty thousand dollars in savings, and threw the bills up in the air on the sidewalk outside.
It's not quite fair to say that the neighborhood is a blank. Astoria has a history of sorts, starting with its name. Like most of Queens, it simply dozed for the two centuries after the Dutch sailed into New York Harbor. Then in 1839 a fur merchant named Stephen A. Halsey saw opportunity. Hoping to flatter John Jacob Astor, king of all fur traders, and entice him into a partnership, he asked the state legislature to change the area's name from Dutch Kills to Astoria. There's no evidence that Astor paid any attention, but wealthy New Yorkers noticed that bucolic Astoria, with its gently rolling hills, offered fine views of the East River and plenty of fresh air. They began building mansions near the water.
Look at the map, and you'll see that Queens is on Long Island. The opening of the Queensboro Bridge in 1909 and an elevated subway in 1917 touched off a half century land rush that turned that island's pristine woodlands, wetlands, and potato farms into a continuous, densely populated suburb of Manhattan. Astoria was the first stop along the way.
Copyright (c) 2002 William Grimes
What People are Saying About This
Who knew chickens could be so fascinating — and lovable — when they're not roasted, sautéed, or extra crispy? Well, thanks to William Grimes, we all know it now. My Fine Feathered Friend is a charming, funny, and delightful look at one man's relationship with an egg-laying guest.
— (Peter Gethers, author of The Cat Who'll Live Forever)
A book of great charm that makes the hidden lives of chickens so interesting it may inspire readers to adopt a bird of their own — or at least to wake up to the wonders in their backyards, whatever lives there.
— (Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, author of The Hidden Life of Dogs)
Interviews
An Exclusive Interview with William Grimes
Barnes & Noble.com: What was your experience with chickens prior to the appearance of the Chicken in the backyard of your home in the dead of winter?
William Grimes: None. Zero. Nada. Lots of experience with cooked ones, both as a diner and a home chef. But I don't think I'd ever seen a chicken close up in my life.
B&N.com: Are there many backyard chickens in Astoria, Queens?
WG: Only mine, as far as I know.
B&N.com: Initially, did you think that sooner or later the Chicken would simply take off?
WG: Yes. Why would it stay? I thought my backyard was a pit stop, and that the chicken would rest and then move on. When it settled in, I got attached to it, and I never dreamed it would leave.
B&N.com: As you investigated the history of poultry, what historical or behavioral fact fascinated you the most?
WG: I was touched by the idea that the hen gently turns the egg three times a day to keep the heat constant. I was also fascinated by the idea that centuries ago, people assigned gender roles to animals and really attached a lot of importance to this. A hen that acted in any way like a rooster was regarded with deep suspicion, even hatred. People wanted animals to act out their notion of the proper role between men and women. I was also surprised to learn that until the invention of the light bulb, poultry farming was small-scale and seasonal, because the productive egg months were in spring and summer.
B&N.com: When you wrote about your chicken encounter in The New York Times, what kind of reaction did you get -- and what kinds of advice were you offered?
WG: I have a shopping bag stuffed with cards and letters. I have several portraits of the chicken, some watercolor, one a framed oil painting. I have a bigger-than-life-size papier-mâché chicken with a sign around its neck saying, "Astoria or Bust." The article generated more reaction than all the articles I've written rolled into one. I got tons of advice from farmers and just plain chicken lovers. Lots of readers, from 9-year-old girls to 80-year-old men, simply wanted to share a chicken story or two. Some sent photos. Most of the advice had to do with food. I was told to save all sort of scraps, even things like cantaloupe rind.
B&N.com: How did the cats react to the disappearance of the Chicken?
WG: They were philosophical. That's a nice way of saying they didn't care. One of them saw the empty nest at the base of the pine tree and settled right in for a nap.
B&N.com: Have you come to think the Chicken's disappearance was due to, er, fowl play or chick-anery?
WG: Everyone thinks I'm naive to think anything else. But I keep asking myself, Why steal a chicken when you can buy one for a few dollars? On the other hand, it is a little suspicious that the chicken disappeared so soon after being written about.
B&N.com: Have you ever dreamed of the Chicken's return?
WG: Not literally. But there were times that I thought I heard its cry. In the weeks after the disappearance, I looked everywhere for it, and really hoped to look out the back window and see it in the yard, pecking away. Time has done its healing work, but my wife and I were both bereft for quite a while.
B&N.com: Since you already have a plastic nest and perch, have you considered getting a few new chickens?
WG: Well, in the interval, a big, fat white cat has settled in and delivered two kittens, so the backyard is getting sort of crowded. I was encouraged to get three or four by a chicken lover in North Carolina, but I guess I'm sticking to the idea that if a chicken comes, fine; if not, I'm busy keeping six cats entertained outside and two inside.
B&N.com: Have you become a vegetarian?
WG: No. That's a horrible thought. Besides, I'd have to resign from my job.
Read what William Grimes has to say about Straight Up or on the Rocks.