The Black Chicken

I was invited along with Mads, my Norwegian companion, to a party at Martha Stewart's, down in the Hamptons. We were having a conversation with soccer legend Dion Dublin, junior Virginia Senator Jack (at least I think it was Jack) Webb, and chef Anthony Bourdain, when Mads nudged me on the shoulder.

"Look at that."

"What?" I said.

"That bird. It's a black chicken."

In fact it was this fuzzy little white bird that Mads informed me had black skin underneath. He had a great recipe for it, he said.

"Don't you dare. I think it's her pet or something."

"So."

In true Mads fashion, he took the bird out back, killed it, and prepped it for cooking. He snuck into the cooking area, and made a stew out of it. Martha noticed his disappearance.

"I believe he had a phone call," I said. Right then, a small Caucasian midget in a white suit stood on a chair and whispered something in her ear.

"Thank you, Bobo," she said.

She left, and five minutes later Mads ran past me with a huge Tupperware container steaming and leaking out of its sides, chased by Martha and some men with moustaches dressed like English bobbies. I excused myself from the individuals I was conversating with.