The other night we ate outside at a barbeque (串) restaurant that had just gotten in their shipment of quail chicks.
The chicks were next to our table in apple crates that happened to be shorter than vertical jump of the strongest chicks. There were quite a few escapees.
The restaurant owner’s kid, a boy about nine years old, was having a ball herding the chicks back to the box, constructing and using a cardboard ramp to walk them back into the box, trying to catch them in mid-jump, etc.
The restaurant also had some pretty large, pretty alive fish that they kept in shallow wash basins. Occasionally the quails’ Papillon impersonation would inspire the fish, who would, with a massive flop, heave themselves from the wash basin into the air, and onto the sidewalk.
The boy was less happy about having to handle the fish, especially after his father yelled at him for picking up an escaped fish and taking it over to introduce to the quail. (“Do you see them, fish? They are birds!” “Goddamnit, put the fish back in the water!”)
We ate some of the chicks and they were good. They were much better roasted than barbequed…they really weren’t meaty (or juicy) enough to grill.