A wrong turn onto a dusty track in northern Texas led me to a rickety shack. I stopped for directions and was met with a strange odour and an elderly disheveled gentleman who looked at me and asked, “What part you want?”
Not sure what he was referring to, I asked, “Part of what?”
“Buzzard”, was the reply.
Turns out, the shack is also a restaurant named The Whole Buzzard. The name’s accurate - it’s the only offering on the menu.
Taken aback, I asked for what I hoped was the least offensive item. “Drumstick”, I said.
“Bold choice”, he replied.
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