Kentucky Fried Chicken's all-you-can-eat Mondays: Breasting and nesting
While he was giving me the skinny, Lady Muck reappeared, this time clutching a biscuit in each hand, asking everyone in line if they wanted to eat her biscuits.
"I don't like them, so they'll just go to waste," she announced, while I wondered why she hadn't just declined the biscuit when she got her plate. When no one wanted them, she huffed over to the trash can and chucked them in.
J. Wohletz I'll eat my own biscuit, thank-you-very-much.
I found a mostly-clean plastic table kitty-corner from Lady Muck, sat down and tucked in.
The chicken was moist and delicious; I swear the eleven herbs and spices are all some form of pepper. I always try to get the crisp-skin shell off the meat in one piece, but never manage to.
For a change, I received ample gravy; previously, my biggest peeve with KFC had been that the potato/gravy ratio isn't skewed in my favor. The coleslaw came in a separate plastic tub and had actually been refrigerated; it was the usual blend of finely minced green cabbage, carrot and thin mayo-y sauce with a slight tang of what I suspect may be horseradish. I picked at the biscuit (I only like them slathered with sausage gravy), passing up the "honey sauce" and "buttery spread" packets. The honey sauce technically had honey in it -- it was the fourth ingredient -- but the spread had no ingredients listed, so my imagination filled in the blanks.
While I ate, I noted that Lady Muck had a distinctive, archetypal cat-lady look. She'd brought a goodly amount of personal belongings to the restaurant; I saw a laptop and several bags containing magazines, books and knitting. She even had one of those sports-stadium seat cushions under her duffer.
She was camping, indoors, in a KFC, even though I suspect she had an actual home. But she wasn't the most etiquette-starved customer in the place. In a booth toward the back sat a family of four, and it looked like the dad had ordered a single special, which he was refilling every few minutes to feed everyone else at the table. Another woman was way-too-obviously stuffing chicken into a plastic bag in her over-sized purse. And a man sitting by the front window kept getting a new plate, eating just a few bites before he dumped the rest in the garbage.
J. Wohletz Slaw on the side.
That's some farm-fresh horse hooey.
I did not expect KFC to be a bastion of high culture and social refinement on all-you-can-eat Monday -- or at any other time, for that matter -- but I wasn't expecting a pickup performance of Les Miserables, either.
My second plate had a huge breast and I chewed as much juicy chicken as I could, finished the sides, clutched at my hardened abdomen, and waddled toward the door. As I stopped by the counter to thank the employees, I asked how they maintained professional attitudes during what was likely some rough customer interaction on Mondays.
They told me they'd seen so much ridiculous behavior during the all-you-can-eat special daqys that they're essentially immune to it. They've been hit by verbal rude-bombs and subjected to the worst kind of picky-eater-bullshit. The demand for breasts wasn't unique to Lady Muck -- who was still there when I left, despite having arrived hours before me.
They are better employees than I would be. I'd rather roll around naked in crushed lightbulb glass than listen to people whine about a deal like this. The all-you-can-eat Monday special at KFC is definitely worth the scratch for the chicken, so long as you don't mind the hawks.
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