My husband took a bite and chewed slowly, a confused look on his face. “This chicken tastes funny,” he finally said, swallowing. “Here, try a bite.”
I leaned over and took a bite, immediately recognizing that it was definitely not chicken. We were standing around the back patio of my husband’s favorite local bike shop, which tonight was transformed into an Asian Cajun Pop-Up, eating fried rice, gumbo, and “chicken” wings. “That’s some sort of meat substitute,” I said.
“I think it’s Satan,” the man standing next to us chimed in.
“Huh?” My hubby cocked his head to the side as he continued to eat the mystery meat.
“Seitan,” the man said, pronouncing it slightly differently this time. “Although some people call it Satan, depending on what they think of it.”
“Vegan meat,” I added for clarification.
The way my hubby shook his head, I could tell it wasn’t making sense to him. “Wait, what does Vegan mean?” he asked me.
“No animal by products,” I said. “Is this vegan?” He nodded. “Oh, well, that makes sense, then.”
Later, on the way home, my husband was still thinking about the Vegan Meat. “Did you know it was Vegan?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I guess my mind wasn’t registering what that meant. My body needs real meat. Can you call and order some teriyaki chicken for me to pick up?”
So I called our favorite teriyaki place and he picked up his second course, this time with real meat.