MY CHICKENS WEREN'T born in the city, but they did grow up there and laid their first eggs there and learned to sleep with other people's lights on and wake up at the crack of smog to the din of Caesar Chavez Street.

They learned to live on burritos, and to not say hi to everyone they see, and to watch for buses, and to try and look tough and crazy when they went out on their own at night.

They went to yoga.

I'm talking about my city chickens, my current crop or flock or gaggle. Gang. You've read about other chickens of mine that were born and brung up and ate by bobcats and foxes in the country when I lived in Sonoma County before. And you read that I'm back, right? Occidental this time, with hippie hicks and somebody famous, but I forget who.

So last week I constructed my white-trashiest chicken coop ever, and then when I was down here in the city over the weekend, I had to go give my girls the news. "Let's go, girls," I said.

They said, "Cluck cluck," which is just about all I ever get out of them, and which I took to mean, in this case, "Where? What the–?"

"You're going to have to learn how to live in the country now," I said. "You'll get used to it. You're chickens. Just watch out for foxes and bobcats."

"Cluck," they said, which I took to mean: "Fuck."

I told them not to worry, that I would be sitting outside on a log most of the time, with a piece of straw in my mouth and a shotgun across my lap. Don't worry. And they said cluck cluck cluck, or "What? Us? Worry?"

While they were getting their shit packed up for the trip, I went to play a little Ping-Pong at the Park Chalet with this jazzy cool-beans calypso group I've been Lord Existing with on the side.

[GLOSSARY OF TERMS: Ping-Pong n. steel drum, tin old rusty tin can style. Lord Existing v. being Lord Exister; being, existing, esp. as in playing Ping-Pong as a manner of expressing one's existence.]

Have you ever been to the Park Chalet? Don't worry, I'm not going to review it. No – yes, I am going to review it. To illustrate a point. Point being: if you live in San Francisco, or the San Francisco Bay Area and you are not in two or three bands, or even one band, then ... what are you waiting for?

The Park Chalet is at the Beach Chalet, across the street from Ocean Beach, corner of Fulton. The Beach Chalet is the upstairs dining room with windows out onto the ocean, I'm guessing; but we were playing downstairs, in back, in this sort of glassed-in patio area. There's a bar. They serve food. And there's a fireplace in the middle of the room. The bands set up right in front of the fireplace, which was nice this day 'cause it was rainy and cold.

I'd never been there before, but I'd heard the food was good, and they have homemade beers, so in between our first and second sets I ordered a little something. Now, this is not Cheap Eats. It's not over-the-top fancy-pants, but it's not cheap either, not by my standards. Other than appetizing appetizers like spicy ginger chicken wings ($8), the cheapest thing on the menu is, of course, the burger ($10).

The catch is that the band eats for half-price. So, bam, just like that a half-pound 10-clam highbrow hamburger is five clams, with fries. Cheap eats. So you see why I'm saying you gotta be in bands?

First thing people say when they find out I'm a food writer, so to speak, is "Wow! Do you get free meals?" Hell no, I pay for my meals. Keeps me honest. I get free meals (or in this case cheap meals) by being in a band. Free drinks too. Otherwise I would never be able to afford to get drunk. In many cases, such as those involving cover charges, I wouldn't even be able to afford to go out.

So, OK, so ... be in a band. That's step 2. Step 1 (optional) is to learn an instrument if you don't already know one. I recommend steel drum. I'll make one for you, and give you lessons. It's going to be my new business: Blind Leading the Blind School of Music. Motto: Drink free! Eat cheap! You sure as hell aren't going to make any money at it.

I ordered a burger, and I ordered the chicken wings, so now I have two things to say instead of just one. The burger sure looked good! The chicken wings sure looked good!

I spent the whole second set staring at them setting there, on a table. Drooling into my pan more than playing it. Really though, they were really good. Even cold.

Step 3: Book a show at the Park Chalet.

Park Chalet/Beach Chalet. 1000 Great Highway (at Fulton), S.F. (415) 386-8439. Sun.-Thurs., 9 a.m.-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 9 a.m.-11 p.m. Full bar. MasterCard, Visa. Wheelchair accessible.

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Dan Leone is the author of Eat This, San Francisco (Sasquatch Books), a collection of Cheap Eats restaurant reviews, and The Meaning of Lunch (Mammoth Books).