Broasted Chicken Cafe

The hotel I’m staying in (tonight’s the last night!) has remarkably little to commend it, though it’s not actually awful in any particular way — just rather uniformly mediocre and uninteresting. About the best part of it is the restaurant on the ground floor; I’ve eaten there each night this week and had a very pleasant, quality meal each time. I’d particularly recommend the smoked chicken pasta.

But tonight I decided to take a little walk through the immediate area to see if I could find something a little different for dinner. I was actually a bit early for many restaurants; about 4 PM. I’d left the office early to work in the quiet of the hotel room, only to find a rather raucous get-together was happening in the room next to mine. Sigh. So an early supper would make a good escape.

I walked a few blocks uphill on Market Street, away from the Civic Center, just enjoying the walk and waiting for some eatery to catch my fancy. A small cafe; neat and uncrowded, advertised in big letters on a metal sign over the door “Broasted Chicken Cafe” — I happen to be a fan of broasted chicken, and the place looked like it might be safe to eat in (several others I’d passed were not so highly qualified), so I stepped inside.

A fellow who appeared to be from somewhere in South Asia — perhaps Sri Lanka, or southern India, or even Thailand — greeted me very pleasantly and prepared to take my order. I looked over the menu above the counter, and to my surprise didn’t see a single item with broasted chicken. There were some tasty looking panini, wraps, soups, and salads on the menu, but not one item with chicken, much less broasted chicken. Also no broaster in sight.

So I asked the fellow behind the counter where the broasted chicken items were. He looked at me as though he’d just discovered he was in the company of a lunatic, and thought that a bit worrisome. With a very thick accent, he said: “No chicken! Panini, wrap, soup, salad, very good. No chicken! No chicken!"

"But…", I said, “the sign outside says 'broasted chicken'.” I should have known better than to question him.

"No chicken sign!", he said, looking worried — and then he ran out from behind the counter and right out the door, beckoning me to follow him. He pointed to the tiny little sidewalk sign — a small folding sign with a chalkboard on both sides — and repeated “No chicken sign!"

So I pointed up to the large sign over his door that said “Broasted Chicken Cafe” — and I couldn’t resist; I said “Chicken Sign!"

My fellow looked at that sign, squinted, and tilted his head sideways — looking for all the world like someone who had truly never seen the sign over his door before. He looked surprised. Then he looked at me and said, definitively, “No chicken!"

And went back inside. Where I followed and meekly ordered a ham and swiss panini and some potato salad. Both were outstanding; I actually went back for more potato salad, which was absolute spudly perfection.

But it wasn’t broasted chicken.

Facing Down the Man

Forwarded by SimonM…

Never Argue With A Woman

One morning, a husband returns after several hours of fishing and decides to take a nap.

Although not familiar with the lake, his wife decides to take their boat out. She motors out a short distance, anchors, and takes out her book.

Along comes a game warden in his boat. He pulls up alongside the woman and says, “Good morning, Ma’am. What are you doing?"

"Reading a book,” she replies (thinking, “Isn’t it obvious?!").

"You’re in a restricted fishing area,” he informs her.

"I’m sorry, Officer, but I’m not fishing, I’m reading."

"Yes, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment. I’ll have to take you in and write you up."

"If you do that, I’ll have to charge you with sexual assault,” says the woman.

"But, I haven’t touched you,” says the game warden.

"That’s true, but you have all the equipment. For all I know, you could start at any moment."

Have a nice day, ma’am,” he said…and quickly left.

Moral of the story: Never argue with a woman who reads. It’s likely she can also think.

Moonbat Encounter

Yesterday morning I left my hotel room at about 5:30 AM, and headed for the Starbucks in the lobby — my usual routine on this business trip. I got my coffee and pastry, wandered over to a table, and proceeded to set up my laptop so I could read the news while I drank my coffee.

Sitting next to me was a slight man, perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s. He glanced at me once, then again, and gave me a sour sort of look. Over the next few minutes, he repeated this, looking more and more agitated and disturbed — and I was starting to wonder what sort of a nut I’d managed to choose a seat near. More about Ethel Merman, perhaps?

Finally this fellow couldn’t stand it, and he spit out a single word that apparently summed up everything he was feeling so intensely: “Fascist!"

Moi, fascist? There are many unkind things one could say about me and be perfectly accurate. Accusing me of being a fascist, though, would not be one of them.

Engaging with this guy (whom I was starting to think of as a full-on loony) didn’t seem like a particularly attractive option, but…I was very curious about why he labeled me as a fascist. So I asked him, very politely, “Why do you think I’m a fascist?"

In response, he nodded and glanced toward my chest. On my shirt I had a small pin of the American flag, something that’s been a normal piece of my business attire since shortly after 9/11. So I asked: “You think I’m a fascist because I have an American flag pin?"

And that set this guy off on a moonbat rant that lasted for a minute or so, non-stop, at the end of which he got up in disgust and (thankfully!) left. His voice started out low, but by the end of his rant he was quite loud, and several other patrons started to look a little worried. Most of his rant consisted of a string of assumptions, all derived in the end from my flag pin. I will not be able to recall them all perfectly, but the general gist of it was something like this: because I wear a flag pin, I must be a mindless, jack-booted, racist, UN-hating, rich Republican. Republicans are all low-IQ, pollution-loving, evil rapists who long ago corrupted representative democracy in America into its current form, where all policy is dictated by some combination of Karl Rove, Enron, and Exxon, which are all fascist organizations. Therefore I was clearly a fascist. Well, at least it was clear to him!

By the end of this rant, he was red in the face, yelling, spitting a bit, and had lost any semblance of control over his emotional state. He was really quite agitated when he left. And those two questions really are the only things I said to him to provoke this — well, that, and my unforgiveable sin of wearing an American flag pin.

From some perspectives, this was an amusing little interlude; a run-in with a nutjob that really had no larger meaning.

From a different perspective, though, it’s more disturbing — a window into a mindset fervently held, but so different than my own that I have a great deal of trouble comprehending it. A fellow citizen of this country, who believes, apparently, that any open expression of patriotism — love of my country — is something to be despised. A fellow citizen who seems to be convinced that he lives in the land of evil, with his life controlled by operatives of the devil and is totally out of his control.

That was yesterday morning. Now I’m about to go down to Starbucks again for this morning’s coffee. I wonder what awaits me there today?