A widower doesn’t ask much of the world. He does, however, have a lot of questions. My biggest question, of course, is: What does a widower do with his free time? I never realized what a depressingly lonely activity watching cable news every night is until I started doing it by myself. Beyond the founding of a genetic chain gang, is the ultimate value of marriage the reassurance of company in a hermetically sealed existence?

When the Pale Rider decided to renew my membership in the bachelor’s club, I considered reclaiming the domestic throne with a new partner, but one question that didn’t require an answer was whether love has an expiration date. For most people, there comes a time when the drive to create is happy to take a backseat to simply watching the roadside attractions of life. The only shame in calling quits on life is doing it without grace. At the age of 53, I decided I had a good a chance as any paper chaser in Flushing is bound to receive.

My routines have changed, but my isolation from the world hasn’t. The only big difference seems to be the amount of time I can spend talking about it. Habits of love die hard, I suppose. I’ve been spending more and more time out of the house, trying to figure out what kind of world I’ve sent my kids out to inhabit, and incidentally, what kind of rail I’ve left myself to ride to the grave. Inevitably, I find myself mulling over this in the dining car.

Restaurants in particular take on new sentiments when you’re utterly alone. Destinations become backdrops. Patrons become characters. Glances become plot points. Hunger becomes curiosity. Satiation becomes restlessness. That first step off the subway at every stop in Queens refreshes my memory like a screensaver of neighborhood photos. Making my way towards Bon Chon Chicken for my weekly chigae, I pose the question: is it better to be a fly on the wall or a fly in someone’s soup?

As I step through the front door a drifting scent of soy and pepper skirts the incoming breeze and shows itself the door. Even the chicken itself knows that it’s too early in the day for anyone to be slaving over a deep fryer. But, business is business. I ask for the usual and take a seat near the entrance.

The two boys sitting across the way are too old to be students. In this country, I guess that statement could be construed as some sort of hate speech, but they’re obviously beyond the cane and ahead of a decent job. Who else eats nothing but a basket of chicken wings for lunch on Monday morning? I once heard of a restaurant in California that serves fried chicken with pizza and fried potatoes. Maybe these loafers are on visitation from the borders of excess. Or maybe they’re simply the type to drink on a Sunday. I suppose the two go hand in hand. I don’t mind if my own son cures his hangovers on a Monday morning, but if I find that he’s ever set foot in a fried chicken pizzeria, I’ll see to it that he deep fries his way through the rest of college.

A bowl of sundubu is placed promptly alongside my newspaper. I glance around as I tuck a napkin into my collar, briefly reconsidering my presence. This is Little Neck. Bon Chon’s night life pretense may be a hit in the city, but that décor is sorely out of place here. Some black movie star shouts, “Shake it! C’mon, shake it!” over the radio speaker as if his song will never reach my age. In defiance, the hostess stands at attention, her expression as undeveloped as ever.

I’m contemplating finding a new space for my Monday screenings when one of the boys takes out a small camera. I take a half-hearted drag of stew and witness a nearly grown man taking photographs of fried chicken. Not to be disparaging; after all, a melding of cultures and blood vessels as elegant as Korean fried chicken is nothing to pick bones about. If I were here at the end of the workday, I wouldn’t mind biting into the weightless crust of one of those wings, glazed with soy, garlic and red pepper, and barely thick enough to seal the tender meat within. His matter-of-fact alternation between consumption, finger-licking and documentation, sensually fragmenting as it is, draws attention to the delicate beauty of a modern classic. What I mean to say is, I think he’d appreciate my question about the fly.

The two interlopers finish their basket and shuffle into the noontime breeze. I turn my attention to the news and nurse my tofu, wondering for a moment if the barflies in Buffalo have gotten wind of the Korean double fry. If I come back next Monday, I’m going to need drinking partner for Sunday night. Hell, is it really possible for man to call it quits on life with any measure of grace?

Bon Chon Chicken
253-11 Northern Blvd
Little Neck, NY 11362
718.224.8523

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 8th, 2007 at 9:52 am and is filed under Deep Fried, New York.