Fine Dining...Texas Style.

Back in the early 1980s my wife (Wifey) and I (me) took a few weeks off and drove from Boston to California. No real plan, no maps, no rush, 400 or so miles a day and then we'd just stay wherever we ended up. Everything was going nice. We were having fun.

Until that little restaurant in Texas.

We were in some crap Texas town way off the interstate when I saw the sign that said Fried Chicken. You always stop when you see a sign that says Fried Chicken. Always. Especially if its a neon sign that blinks :FRIED CHICKEN: :FRIED CHICKEN:

So we go in and take a seat, the waitress (Flo) gives us our menus (not that I needed one with the Fried Chicken sign outside)...and then we start looking around. The place is filled with wannabee cowboys and douchebags....even some douchebag cowboys. And they all notice me and my long hair. A bit too long for their douchebaggy cowboy way. I'm nervous. Wifey is nervous...but they have fried chicken so we risk our lives.

Our waitress (Flo) brings us our food. OH MY GOD. What was on the plate was NOT fried chicken. I'm pretty sure it was a fried dog leg. A large fried dog leg. We're talking Golden Retriever, maybe a fried Black Lab. It was HUGE. And fried. And not chicken. Unless in Texas the chickens are as big as huge dogs (it's possible) And all the cowboys just watched us as Flo put down the plates. They knew. They've done it before.

We decide not to eat the fried dog leg. We also decide not to make a fuss and send it back.

I quietly tell Wifey to just get up and go to the car and start it...I'll be right out. I throw some money on the table (including a please don't follow us and kill us tip) run out to the car and drive off.

Damn. I really wanted fried chicken. And mashed potatoes. Gravy. Maybe some biscuits. Big glass of cold milk. Nice wedge of chocolate cake.

I want fried chicken right now. For breakfast. In Massachusetts.