Yesterday was pleasant in Edward Everett Square, 59 degrees on the benches by the giant Clapp Pear Statue. Directly behind the park that sits at the bend where Columbia Road branches off the beginnings of Mass Ave and Boston Street, is a KFC that perfumes the neighborhood with the savory smells of fried poultry and Col. Sanders' special, secret blend of eleven herbs and spices. Taking advantage of the weather, five teen-aged boys were enjoying a ten-piece bucket of the Colonel's extra-crispy thighs, wings and breasts and commenting on their meal.
One boy said, "This chicken is okay but it's not as good as New York Fried Chicken. We could have walked three blocks and gone to New York."
The boy next to him replied, "There's nowhere to sit outside at New York. There's just a traffic island in the middle of Hancock Street. I'm not sitting there."
The boy next to him chimed in, "We could always sit inside. The tables are a little scrubby but the lights are bright. We would see what we're eating." This occured around 5:30 in the afternoon, dark in pre-winter solstice Boston even with the streetlights lit.
The second boy added this rejoinder: "Yeah, it's bright in there. It's bright enough to see the dirt."
The fourth boy said, "They run a clean joint but do you know where I want to go? KFC is okay and New York Chicken is okay but I'd rather be in Fenway. There's a Popeye's in Fenway."
The boy at the end of the last bench took a big bite of succulent breast meat. "Mmmm," he said, "Popeye's, now that's good fried chicken. They're living good in Fenway."
His companions nodded and smacked thier lips in agreement while they polished off the bucket. They made a plan to take the Red Line the next day and then any Green Line train but the "E" to Knemore Square. The first boy rubbed his belly and said, "I can't wait to pop in at Popeye's"