KFC

Something’s wrong here.
KFC is a favorite «guilty pleasure» that we re-​visit when in need of a taste of a childhood treat.
We don’t go here for anything but the «original recipe;» the grilled and «extra-​crispy» we can go to a real restaurant for. Similarly, when we go to McDonald’s, it’s only for the Big Mac and the shoestring fries. It is what it is.
On a recent visit the store manager was astoundingly rude. Astoundingly. I’d love to attribute this to a language barrier, but I heard him communicating effectively with someone else in the restaurant. And mind you, I’m not combative and actually get along with people very well.
One of the individuals he talked to was a fellow who’d actually asked me for a dollar in the parking lot. And I could be wrong, but I could swear I heard the manager’s lone assistant say to me «why’re you sweatin’ my boy?» The answer, my friend, is ’cause I don’t want to give him a dollar. In a parking lot, in Hartford, at ten o’clock at night.
We lodged a complaint, on-​line, with KFC because of the fact that it just seemed that nobody was watching the store. Worse, even though the store was recently renovated and the parking lot behind it well-​lit, they couldn’t seem to manage the crowd of thugs hanging out in the lot and in the store. It was scary to the three people in my car, who locked themselves in – while it took me literally 40 minutes to get an order of chicken. I only waited because I’d paid for it.
We’ll travel to the one in New Britain, or on New Britain Avenue in Hartford, in the future.