The crisp autum breeze and the smell of chicken wings in the fryer can only mean one thing – college football season is here! Last weekend I cheered on my alma mater at the neighborhood bar and after several rounds and an exciting victory I made friends with a fellow at the bar.
We engaged in the typically Saturday afternoon bar chit chat, “Who are you rooting for? What are you drinking? What’s your name?” (yes, in that order). Things were getting a little flirty when he drops the line, "They call me the Italian Stallion. Do you have any nicknames?”
Then, without a moment of hesitation, I responded, “Some people call me the butcher.” And before the I had chance to explain that it was a nicknamed I earned at culinary school because of freakishly quick amount of time I could break down a chicken, he was gone.
I guess somethings are better left in the kitchen. Next time I’ll follow Nancy Regan’s advice and just say no.