I’m a very picky eater. I have a lot of hangups about foods that have a certain texture, odor, or look. There are a lot of things I won’t eat. More things that I won’t eat than I will eat, really.
My husband has threatened to take away my Southern Girl card because I don’t typically eat many Southern staples. Grits, macaroni and cheese, any fried vegetable–no. Biscuits and gravy, eggs of any type, mashed potatoes–no. Lunch meat that isn’t shaved deli turkey, most veggies, cream of wheat–no. I won’t eat American cheese at all, or any kind of cheese on a sandwich or hamburger. My husband is always amazed when we go get subs and all I get is turkey and mustard on mine. Get where I’m going here?
So, one time my husband and I went out with our two best friends to eat at a local Mexican restaurant. At that point in time, every time I had gone into that particular restaurant, I had gotten treated like I was crazy by the staff. Word to the wise — you will be (rightfully) shamed if you ask for fries and ketchup there.
That particular time, I scoured the menu looking for something that I would eat. I decided to change things up from ordering chicken nuggets off the kids menu, so when I found “Rotisserie chicken” listed, I decided to go with that.
When the server asked what I wanted, I told him, “I’ll have the rotisserie chicken, please,” in a very dignified manner, since I wasn’t ordering off the kid menu or making a hundred changes to a dish, and started to hand him my menu.
“You want what?”
“The rotisserie chicken. It’s on the menu.”
Everyone started snickering, like I was making a joke, but I wasn’t, of course.
“It’s on the menu,” I said sharply. I opened up the menu and pointed to the “Rotisserie Chicken” option. “This is what I want, but I don’t want any rice or beans.” I eat neither (unless the rice happens to be covered in stew beef) and planned to eat chips and salsa with the chicken.
“You want a whole chicken?” the server asked, giving me a look.
WTF? It’s a rotisserie chicken. I had them before at the dinner and a show things we had gone to at the beach — they weren’t that big. Was I catching some hell for being overweight?
“Yes,” I said, and I’m sure that I looked kinda pissed at that point. He wrote it down.
A few minutes later, the manager came over.
The manager said “okay” and left.
We all caught up with each other a bit, and at one point, my friend noticed one of the guys that worked at the restaurant leave and come back a short time later with a Food Lion bag. She said that they probably went to buy one of those ready-made chickens for me, which I thought was joke.
And then the server brought out the food. My plate was filled with what appeared to be a whole chicken cut up.
I looked at my husband. “The one I had at the Dixie Stampede was not this big.” This made my husband and friends laugh even harder.
Finally, after wiping away the tears from her eyes, my friend cleared things up. “That was a rotisserie Cornish hen you had at the Dixie Stampede. This is a whole rotisserie chicken! They probably put it on the menu as an option for a family!”
We all laughed so hard over that damn chicken. I ate a single breast from it and had plenty of leftovers to take home.
It has been three years since that happened, and I still get crap over that chicken.
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