Service: * 1\/2
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Food: * 1\/2
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Ambience: *
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Babe Count: *<\/i><\/p>\n
“May I please have a quarter chicken — the quarter with a drumstick — some chips, and some iced tea, all takeaway?” I say to the dude behind the counter.<\/p>\n
He barks the order to another dude, who wields a pair of scissors to snip through the flesh, skin, gristle and bone of one of the unfortunate chickens stewing in its own juices on the rotisserie. <\/p>\n
I need it to be takeaway cos I’ve got to rush home and pack for my trip to Somerset West tomorrow. I’m in a frenzy of excitement, cos I’m finally going to meet Heidi face-to-face. She’s nervous cos she and her friends performed some kind of avant garde op art on her hair. But that’s cool. It’s nothing compared to what I do to my own hair. Every day. With a razor. <\/p>\n
But back to my order. I see the guy plonking the quarter without the drumstick into a box. “Uh…” I say, “I want the drumstick, please.” <\/p>\n
The guy who took my money barks at the snip artist. “Leg! With leg! With leg!!” I don’t like it when managers shout at their staff to cover their own ineptitude. And then I don’t notice that he hasn’t given me my iced tea. It’s only back at home when I see this. And I’m not wasting my precious packing time to go and get the damn thing.<\/p>\n
The chicken itself is ultra oily. It’s the smallest portion of chicken I’ve ever eaten from a takeaway spot. Literally a drumstick and a small piece of thigh. I estimate that I got six mouthfuls out of the chicken. The chips were made from glassy potatoes. And I’m still hungry. Looks like I’ll be eating muesli later tonight. <\/p>\n