here we go again on my own... to Pollo Campero
going on the only internet I've ever known.
So last night, Andy and I decide that we are in the mood for some gastronomic adventures.
When suddenly, things took a turn for the gastrointestinal worst.
We decide that nothing suits our appetites better than a restaurant that has sticky tables. A restaurant that could provide the world with millions of gallons of used cooking oil every year. A restaurant that has locations in Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Bailey's Crossroads.
YES, last night we went to POLLO CAMPERO. The Chicken of the Fields that offers us fields of deep-fried chicken. The happy yellow clucker that offers us his menu of various fried combinations of the hacked-apart pieces of his brethren.
We walked into the joint, surprisingly empty (there were people waiting in line since 3 am last year when it opened), and we were immediately confused. The restaurant was segregated. Two distinct (but equal?) sections: EAT-IN and TAKE-OUT (or id-in and teic-aut in Spanish). We were directed, visibly disoriented, towards an order-island in the middle of the eat-in section, after mumbling the magic words, lacking confidence: queremos comer aqui.
Andy and I examined the menu. They are picture-based. And every item is more or less the same, a combination of the three menu items. Fried chicken. beans. rice. Un pedazo. dos pedazos. tres pedazos. And for those with a true desire to turn their stomachs into a diesel-combustion engine simulator, cinco and seis pedazos.
We ordered. I got the three-piece, Andy, wiser and more wary, got the two-piece. We sat down with our paper placemats and were happy when the smell of TACA arrived at our table. the rich bounty of POLLO CAMPERO.
And we ate. The beans were in a separate container, garnished with a mystery meat that I over-enthusiastically consumed. Perhaps foolishly. The rice was rather good. The chicken had successfully been infused, the milky love of cloudy month-old oil penetrating every pore and fiber. I was given a 24-oz. horchata. Way too big a container for rice-milk. They don't even sell them that big at Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck). And I drank its grainy sweetness.
We returned to the car after dawdling for a few minutes in the restaurant, examining the post-industrial quasi-latino wall-art. We were particulary amused by the latino history wall, which (amongst other designs) featured a yellow chicken holding a bubbling green vial of something (probably the base for their cooking oil) and thinking in one of those comic bubbles "E=MC2." Yes, you heard it. ALBERT EINSTEIN WAS LATINO. And, to top it off, the THEORY OF RELATIVITY is based on the molecular disturbances in POLLO CAMPERO cooking oil.
There were some nice pictures from Guatemala on the back wall. Andy showed me the pyramid that he fell off and almost died on.
In any event... we lollygagged our way out to the car, happy to see it still in one piece (this is Bailey's X-roads, not McLean). On the way back, Andy noted the increasing tremors in his stomach, perhaps the impending signs of gas pains to come. He mentioned possibly needing to use my bathroom. I laughed, assuming he was kidding, shrugging off the grisly possibility of his evacuation. He said he was serious.
We arrived at home and had some coffee liqueurs to settle down the potential intestinal insurgencies. I felt fine, and I felt like I had won some foolish contest, some perverse Russian-roulette of the belly.
I slept well last night.
But this morning, I awoke to find that, without my permission, Pedro the Pollo had hosted a party in my innards to which I was not invited. I felt as if he and his barnyard buddies had decided to use my stomach as a piñata. And apparently, no matter how hard they beat me, I yielded no satisfying candies.
Luckily I have survived. But I felt really quite drained as I rode the 13 miles to work this morning.
Methinks I shall play it safer tonight.
Love,
j, e, and j.e.
So last night, Andy and I decide that we are in the mood for some gastronomic adventures.
When suddenly, things took a turn for the gastrointestinal worst.
We decide that nothing suits our appetites better than a restaurant that has sticky tables. A restaurant that could provide the world with millions of gallons of used cooking oil every year. A restaurant that has locations in Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Bailey's Crossroads.
YES, last night we went to POLLO CAMPERO. The Chicken of the Fields that offers us fields of deep-fried chicken. The happy yellow clucker that offers us his menu of various fried combinations of the hacked-apart pieces of his brethren.
We walked into the joint, surprisingly empty (there were people waiting in line since 3 am last year when it opened), and we were immediately confused. The restaurant was segregated. Two distinct (but equal?) sections: EAT-IN and TAKE-OUT (or id-in and teic-aut in Spanish). We were directed, visibly disoriented, towards an order-island in the middle of the eat-in section, after mumbling the magic words, lacking confidence: queremos comer aqui.
Andy and I examined the menu. They are picture-based. And every item is more or less the same, a combination of the three menu items. Fried chicken. beans. rice. Un pedazo. dos pedazos. tres pedazos. And for those with a true desire to turn their stomachs into a diesel-combustion engine simulator, cinco and seis pedazos.
We ordered. I got the three-piece, Andy, wiser and more wary, got the two-piece. We sat down with our paper placemats and were happy when the smell of TACA arrived at our table. the rich bounty of POLLO CAMPERO.
And we ate. The beans were in a separate container, garnished with a mystery meat that I over-enthusiastically consumed. Perhaps foolishly. The rice was rather good. The chicken had successfully been infused, the milky love of cloudy month-old oil penetrating every pore and fiber. I was given a 24-oz. horchata. Way too big a container for rice-milk. They don't even sell them that big at Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck). And I drank its grainy sweetness.
POST-CONSUMPTION REPORT
There were some nice pictures from Guatemala on the back wall. Andy showed me the pyramid that he fell off and almost died on.
In any event... we lollygagged our way out to the car, happy to see it still in one piece (this is Bailey's X-roads, not McLean). On the way back, Andy noted the increasing tremors in his stomach, perhaps the impending signs of gas pains to come. He mentioned possibly needing to use my bathroom. I laughed, assuming he was kidding, shrugging off the grisly possibility of his evacuation. He said he was serious.
We arrived at home and had some coffee liqueurs to settle down the potential intestinal insurgencies. I felt fine, and I felt like I had won some foolish contest, some perverse Russian-roulette of the belly.
I slept well last night.
But this morning, I awoke to find that, without my permission, Pedro the Pollo had hosted a party in my innards to which I was not invited. I felt as if he and his barnyard buddies had decided to use my stomach as a piñata. And apparently, no matter how hard they beat me, I yielded no satisfying candies.
Luckily I have survived. But I felt really quite drained as I rode the 13 miles to work this morning.
Methinks I shall play it safer tonight.
Love,
j, e, and j.e.
posted by eduardo ramos at 1:55 PM
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