San Francisco Chicken

True Story:

Last week Sheryl Ann and I arrived in San Francisco and took the Super Shuttle
into town, only to be stopped and frisked thoroughly at the freeway
280 entrance to the city for contraband.

"But contraband WHAT?" asked Sheryl Ann innocently, knowing all too
well that she herself had smuggled industrial diamonds into the
country from Canada in Puffy The Poodle's rhinestone dog collar after
watching "North by Northwest" one to many times on the late, late,
late show.

We checked into the Beck's Motor Lodge and then strolled down Market
Street to the lovely open air Café Flore and discussed the situation
at hand.

We had learned from the desk clerk at the motel that all 1,000 of San
Francisco's police and sherrifs had been arrested the previous week in
the largest undercover drug operation in the history of the United
States of America. There were over 10,000 F.B.I. agents in plain
clothes and acting as police officers in San Francisco already, with
as many as 100,000—at least—expected. So aggressive had the one third
of the city's population who were heroin addicts and drugs lords
gotten that no less that 200 F.B.I. agents had already come close to
losing their lives in the line of duty and 100 citizens a day were
being murdered in drug related hits—being pushed in front of subways
and even killed in the local library restrooms late at night and
dumped in San Francisco Bay. Even the cable car drivers were dealing
drugs and murdering tourists late at night.

"I wish our travel agent in Miami had told us about THIS!" grumped
Sheryl Ann.

The good news was that about 10% of the 300,000 suspected involved had
been caught already and many of the production labs had been shut
down. Most of the major drug dealing spots were being staked out 24
hours a day, including bars like The Bar and The Badlands in the
Castro district where we were staying, as were 24 supermarkets like
Safeway (#1) and laundromats like the Little Hollywood down the
street.

Of greatest concern to Sheryl Ann was the fact that the parks were
also staked out and that DOG WALKERS were automatically suspect, as
being a dog owner/walker was a code to other drug dealers that you
were one of them.

"We'll have to do something about this, dear Buffy," she said,
glancing at little Puffy, who was sleeping peacefully under our wooden
table enjoying a plate of complimentary dog bisquits. "I am calling on
Kar-Mi!" she said, sipping yet another glass of California chardonnay
and invoking the turban adorned overseer of the café, whose poster
sized image hung behind the counter.

I knew it was time to get her to the nearest Alcoholics Anonymous
meeting when she started calling me "dear Buffy"—and, frankly, after
even one glass of chardonnay. I asked around and found that the
nearest was right down the street at Metropolitan Community Church.

On our way we stopped at Happy Trails novelty shop and bought a
disguise for Puffy so we could travel freely—a little Groucho Marx
nose and glasses and Japanese kimono. On our way out the place was
raided by F.B.I. agents as it had been one of the most notorious drug
dealing spots in The Castro district.


San Francisco Chicken

4 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons tarragon vinegar
2 cloves garlic
8 chicken breasts
Seasoned salt and pepper, to taste
2/3 cup dry sherry

Preheat oven to 350 °F.
Put oil and vinegar into a skillet, then press garlic into mixture.
Sprinkle chicken with seasoned salt and pepper.
Add to pan and sauté chicken until golden-brown.
Remove chicken to a baking pan and cover with sherry; bake for 10
minutes.
Serve immediately.