January 18, 2009

Special sauce.

As Dog is my witness, from this day forward, I will NEVER eat Pollo Campero again.

I love fried chicken. When we moved here a year ago, I found Pollo Campero to be an adequate replacement for my usual Church's Chicken - not great, just adequate. Today, after eight weeks without some extra-crispy goodness, I went over to the Pollo Campero here in Pavas for a two-piece and some fries.

I've been here long enough now to not be surprised when my food is practically thrown at me. That's to be expected. The pissy attitude when I stopped the girl pouring my drink from giving me Coke when I'd asked for root beer, I expected. I wasn't even surprised when she just stood there, glaring at me, Coke in hand, waiting for me to back down and just take the Coke. After a few seconds, she huffed and poured out the Coke and refilled the cup with root beer. (In the states, I'd have asked her to give me a new, un-Coke-contaminated cup. Maybe some time when I've got an hour to kill and don't mind the cops showing up, I'll try that.) She completed my order and shoved the tray at me and had started to walk away when I asked her for some catsup. She just stood there for a second and jutted her chin at the packets of pinkish metallic tasting shit they always include with the chicken. I repeated my request, "Salsa de tomate, por favor." She tossed two packets onto the tray and walked away. So much for "Thank you and please come again." Just because none of this comes as any surprise doesn't make it any less irritating.

I sat down with husband and kid about 10 feet away and proceeded to tell husband what had happened. He just smirks. He's heard it all before and he's just wondering when I'll just give up and let it go. I'm considering this as I talk and, at that moment, I look over his shoulder and see the young man who took my order, the one who SCOOPED MY FRIES, lean back against the french fry bin and shove his index finger so far up his nose, he was probably scraping out what little gray matter he had. Scrape, scrape, dig. Dig, dig. Scrape. Pull out. Inspect. Flick. Flick. Wipe. Inspect and, to my continuing horror, repeat. As he does this, I'm calling the action, in detail, for my husband's benefit. I'm actually gagging a little and a faint quease washes over me. Husband just laughs. "Now will you stop eating here?" Yes. Yes, I think I will.