Across Tennessee. By Kia.
“Three hundred miles?!?” says the LTLP.
“Chill out. It will be worth the journey, for food like this,” I reply.
“Three hundred miles?!?!?!?”
“I will go in ahead, and see if I can get a table.”
It is amazing being in such a historic place from the dawn of the universe of food. Colonel Sanders’ original restaurant is like a Stonehenge for the peckish man. I stride in, feeling the aura, soaking in the atmosphere of this place; the convergence of hundreds of strands of catering, of thousands of carefully-breaded ley lines.
“What would you like?” enquires the lady behind the counter (I assume she is Colonel Sanders’ great great granddaughter or something, but I do not like to ask.)
I order some chicken. She asks me if I would like a side order with it, and I choose a side order. She asks me what I would like to drink, and I choose my drink. I then go to collect some serviettes and a straw.
Truly, it is a unique experience.
“Three hundred miles?!?!???!” chants the LTLP as we begin the drive to our next destination back in Tennessee.
But I do not care. I am happy. I have a belly full of chicken, and a photograph of the Toddler sitting on a bench next to a life-size fibreglass model of Colonel Sanders.
“Could we perhaps do some normal holiday things now?” she asks.
I smile. I have some really good plans coming up, that she will really love.
Damn but you’re good. I’m starting to fancy you myself. The LTLP needs to watch out
Well, but you are only human NickyB.
Peckish man = man who keeps chickens?
I should skip this part of the carousel when you’re boring your chickens with the slide show on your return…
Posh, he says.
I can’t wait to read about the other ‘good plans’.
Is NickyB related to you, by any chance?
I love myself some Kentucky Fried Chicken (or whatever variety can be found on the high street; it might be “Dallas Fried Chicken”.
You’ve truly been to the Holy Land, Jonny. Maybe you could add a little bourbon to your own chicken’s feed to Kentuckify them.
Z, JonnyB only *visited* Tennessee, he doesn’t *live* there.
I hear they put a secret ingrrrrrredient in that makes you crrrrrrave it fortnightly (yop, I will indeed take the opportunity to quote a favorite, slightly obscure movie).
We had KFC the other evening, I can’t say I cared much for it and that was only a five hundred metre drive away (you can’t walk to pick up fast food, it’s wrong). I suppose it might be worth it for l’ambience though.
The thing is, it’s a bit like Guinness from Dublin, or fish and chips by the sea.
KFC frmo Kentucky is the best.
Although I do agree with Ellie and do like the occasional ‘I can’t Believe It’s not KFC’
Excuse me, but if The Colonel’s great great granddaughter failed to inquire as to whether you wanted “original recipe” or “extra crispy”, your entire account becomes suspect. This simply WOULD NOT HAPPEN. Not in my America, Chester. No way, no how.
I feel cheated.
Oops. I neglected to clarify “The Colonel”. What I meant to say was “The Colonel, with his wee beady eyes”. (That’s just for you, Megan!!)