Forsooth! What doth mine nose detect?
Ambrosia sweet, wafting ‘pon the aether,
Ah yes, I know what toothsome treat I descry.
‘Tis Giordano’s sumptuous fingers of the chicken.
Chicken fingers? scoff thee. A sniveling toddlers delight!
Surely ‘tis jest, chortle thee, polishing thy watch-face.
I jest not! And, I implore you, judge not!
This tender be an off’ring from ‘bove the firmament!
And so from the gay counter-maid ‘tis order’d:
no fry’d potat (thankee), no sweet’d carbon quaff (quite so)
Simply the phalanges of a fowl, prepar’d in oil most hot!
Be Pavlov near? No?! Then, why doth mine mouth water so?
Woe to thee who chooseth ye popcorn’d chicken,
A dry demon-bird cloak’d in a bread of lies,
Nor catsup nor ‘tard a salve for its betrayal,
Mark me well, trust not the chicken Judas!
Oh how scores grovel before thy bar of clam, milord Giordano.
Ye waiting, once warbled Mr. Petty, is thy hardest part.
With steely mind and girded – yet outspoken – belly, I abide,
Poultry absolution is nigh.
Hark! The numerals of mine order have been sung.
Order 201! Order 201! Surely this be heav’n’s refrain!
Naught but Michael’s flaming blade couldst halt my ‘proach,
A-waving mine receipt like a fishmonger his cod.
Of accoutrements, I ask for but two:
Catsup, a tool no less essential than ye fork,
Honey’d Mustard, thy flavors a harmony sweeter than Mozart.
Bird in hand, I slip, lizard-like, ‘neath the shade of yonder porch.
Huzzah! The moment of import arrive’d at last,
Tenderly, ‘nto both sauces I dip thy steaming husk, oh chick’n.
(Yon order of thy dipping matters not!)
Hand a-tremble I raise thee dress’d, to mine maw.
I couldst swear ‘twere G-d’s voice translat’d threw tongue-buds.
His lexicon crisp, His meaning sweet, salt His punctuation.
And through’t all, the comforting tone of fowl most succulent.
In His holy, clucking thrall am I stricken.
Lost, then! ‘side the chronosphere I float in chicken-time.
Mine corpus finds agency its own, chick’n bourn to mouth by reflex ‘lone
Eyes roving, I spy tourists a-flitting, carriages rumbling past scenery most-fine.
In such a moment, do I find peace ‘mongst life’s headlong rush.
Mine purpose: clear! Mine intent: pure!
Simply I and mine chick’n treat; simul in aeternum!
But what is this? Yon chick’n boon is exhaust’d! Consume’d!
An epiphany, which from mine reverie jolts to find belly fill’d,
Whole once more.
‘Tis a gift to man, this chicken’s finger of Giordano’s.
A wonder ‘pon which better men have wax’d.
I implore, should thy path e’er spirit thee to the Vineyard of Martha,
Miss not yon delicacy! Miss not!
For ‘pon thy bed of final repose,
regret be th’ mightiest emote of all!
Giordano’s (the take-out window/Clam Bar, not the actual restaurant) serves up a mean fried clam, pizza, and more. In fact, their pizza – by the slice or pie – is some of my favorite on the island; if only for nostalgic reasons. But nothing compares to their chicken fingers. Seriously, you think I’m joking. After testing my hypothesis for nearly 27 years, these are, without question, the best chicken fingers on the planet.
The fried clams can definitely run steep, but everything else is well within reason.
Giordano’s remodeled its take-out area about three years ago. It’s still a take-out area.
Lots of tourist traffic thanks to its convenient location at the bottom of Circuit Avenue in Oak Bluffs. They’re used to lines, so the wait is never a deal-breaker.
EAT OR SKIP:
If you yearn for chicken finger perfection, make a pilgrimage.