Playing chicken

En route to the grocery store, Father and I stopped off at the new Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant this afternoon. That, in itself, was quite an achievement, since in all our years in various parts of the world we managed to quite successfully avoid the fast food chain for no real reason but that there was always something more interesting to sink our teeth into...literally. But since this was a new outlet, fairly clean and well lit, and it was on our way to where we were headed and it saved us from my cooking for a quick lunch, we walked in, ordered, watched and listened to the chaos behind the counter, sat down, ate, laughed, talked and then went on our way, feeling quite happy with our meal, even though it did not satisfy my usually stringent mandates on fibre and green veggies, low salt and no preservatives. But then a once-in-a-while junk food fest never hurt, did it? It may even make people appreciate my organic healthfood cuisine a little more!

And while we ate, we shared a gentle giggle remembering our first and only time at the same fast food company, albeit a different outlet in a different country in what seems like a different life completely. It was some years ago in Beijing, China, on a trip that started with an international conference that Father was attending in that enigmatic country and ended with sensory exhaustion all around and the feeling that we had lived through a wondrous and unrepeatable time. we had a guide-translator who patiently and dutifully shepherded us through many of the landmarks that so spectacularly lit up the screen in the Last Emperor, and who told us stories about each place he took us to with much drama and heavy breathing through difficult syntax and a couple of misplaced 'r's and 'l's. He was a sweet man who worked very hard to please us. He fed us everything from dimsum of various sorts to the famed Peking duck at the famed Peking Duck Restaurant, converted currency and language for us at the souvenir shops and Friendship stores, woke us up on time for the bus and sent us to bed with full tummies and even fuller minds every evening and did all this and much much more with a huge smile and many often wildly chancy adjectives.

So one afternoon, when he told us he had a great treat planned for lunch, we were game for anything. It would be delicious and exotic, so don't as what's in it, just eat, was the general mood, upbeat and happy and anticipatory. The bus lumbered and blasted its way through the city traffic, dodging bicycles and people with a grace and agility I would never have expected of something so large and ponderous. But then, if you could pick up a stewed duck's foot with laquered chopsticks, you could manouvre anything, we collectively figured. And then the bus came to a slow and screeching halt just outside what seemed to be a strip mall. There were various small eateries along that stretch and I spotted a dumpling stall that belched fragrant wafts of steam and hot oil...but no, that was not it. Our guide got us all off the bus, gathered in a warm and hungry group at the foot of a small stairway. We go there, he pointed.

The big red and white sign was familiar. A couple of Americans in the group laughed. I looked, shut my eyes, looked again. The words on the sign did not have to be read, the image of an old man with a beard and glasses said it all: Kentucky Fried Chicken.