To write this entry, I have to admit upfront that not only do I enjoy fast food, but I love KFC. I love Burger King even more, but that’s another story.
That having been said, I should stress that there’s not a high concentration of fast food restaurants on the Upper East Side. When I first moved to New York City, I thought I remembered driving past a KFC close to home.
I locked into my mind that it was on 2nd Avenue, but I couldn’t remember the cross streets. Driving is not an option. If you own a car in New York, you rarely take it out unless you are actually leaving the city that day. This is a walking culture for just about anything under 10-15 blocks depending on time constraints.
I set off on my journey up 2nd Avenue in search of that hallowed KFC. After about ten blocks, my faith was wavering. “Was it really on 2nd Avenue? Did I dream all of this up? Did Oswald act alone?”
I realized I was going to have break down and ask someone. The woman walking next to me seemed pleasant enough, though her jewelry was a bit ostentatious.
“Excuse me, I know this is a strange question, but is there a KFC around here?”
She seemed startled. “A K—F—C—?” She snapped each letter off as if she couldn’t believe her own ears. What was this deranged person asking of me, she pondered.
“I’m sorry, a Kentucky Fried Chicken?”
She snorted with unmistakable contempt. I might have gotten a warmer reaction if I had just robbed the neighborhood wine shop at gunpoint. “HEEERE, Oh no, no, no. You won’t find one of those here.”
“Alright, well thanks,” I said sheepishly.
Sure enough a block later, the object of the women’s disgust was sitting there on the corner just across the street, luring me in like a beacon of greasy hope and justice.
I looked at my newfound friend with a Cheshire Cat’s grin and in the most sincere voice I have ever delivered -- I announced, “Oh thank God, there it is, thank-you so much for your help and have a nice day.”
MMMMMMM, greasy bits of chicken ---
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