http://www.guardian.co.tt/lifestyle/2014-10-15/kfc-very-trini-obsessionKFC: A very Trini obsessionJoshua Surtees
Published:
Thursday, October 16, 2014
I can pinpoint the exact point I knew I had a KFC problem—it was when I found myself freely cussing the manager of the Maraval branch at quarter to midnight, one rainy night, because she would not prepare me some more chicken.
They tried to make me go to rehab, but instead I came to London, where the KFC is of a less potent quality. The withdrawal process on this side of the Atlantic has proved painless and I’m glad of the alternative therapies, like roast dinners and full English breakfast.
The day I owned up to my problem (I won’t say addiction, it never reached that level because an intervention caused me to cap my consumption at once a month whereas I’d been pushing for once a week) I had been on a late assignment and was cruising back to town along the East-West corridor with my mind on one thing alone—fried chicken.
I stopped at two KFCs along the way but was dismayed by the unsanitary conditions and lengthy queues and instead headed West to Maraval roundabout.
Pulling up to the drive-thru window, I asked for a two-piece snack box with leg and thigh. I had to repeat the word “thigh” in the local vernacular—“tie”—since every attempt at pronouncing it in correct English throughout my time in Trinidad resulted in the puzzled response, “What it is you want?!”
The Maraval KFC employee told me there was no chicken except wings. Not even a meagre piece ah breast!
Deflated, crushed and somewhat baffled, I asked, “Is this Kentucky Fried Chicken?”
She confirmed that it was, so I said, “Good. I’d like some chicken then, please.”
She steupsed and gave a world-weary sigh, then went off to consult the manager. Some minutes later she returned to say that I could have wings or nothing.
When I asked to speak to the manager she laughed at me. That was when I snapped. My KFC cravings had reached new and rampageous levels, it was no time for fun and games.
I accelerated away from the booth with tyres screeching, aggressively swerved the car into the nearest vacant parking spot and leapt out, practically breaking the door down to enter the restaurant.
I enquired as to why I had been laughed at and why the manager had thus far failed to acknowledge my existence. More laughter issued forth and I could no longer restrain myself: the cussing ensued.
It was to no avail. The manager ignored me and continued about her business. Thankfully she did not grab a pot of hot oil and dash it at me as happened in a recent incident in the vicinity of a KFC outlet, or I could conceivably have been Kentucky Fried Joshua.
The report made me reflect on the nation’s obsession with KFC. My conclusion is that—having personally patronised the Barataria branch, Santa Cruz branch, Morvant junction branch, Charlotte Street branch, Frederick Street branch, Independence Square branch, Maraval and St James branches of KFC—what’s consistent about all of them is that the clientele would keep frequenting them regardless of having hot oil thrown in their face. Such is the ubiquity of the colonel’s secret recipe within Trinidadian society, both physically and metaphysically.
There is local pride in Royal Castle too, of course. Founded in 1968 on Frederick Street and expanding into a nationwide franchise, Royal Castle’s pepper sauce is unbelievably good and it can proudly boast at being slightly less likely to cause obesity than KFC.
But, asked to choose between the two, I would wager that KFC would win a national referendum and there are statistics to back this up.
I’ve been told that outside of the US, T&T is the franchise’s highest grossing overseas market per capita. And 55 outlets on two small islands testify to the obsession.
British KFC just doesn’t taste the same, as any Caribbean person will tell you. They don’t even have spicy for a start, just original. It’s bland and soulless and there’s shame attached to it. It’s something indulged in when drunk or badly hungover.
My local branch in London recently closed down to make way for a coffee shop (as if we need any more of those.) But I’m guessing its departure won’t be mourned like if you took away the one in Scarborough, Tobago—passing by that place you would swear it was the hub of the local community.
I’ve heard it described as the national dish of T&T and although that is a little disrespectful to the sensational local cuisine, I feel like the Trini diaspora misses KFC more than roti or pelau, which they can make themselves at home.
A friend recently left Trinidad for the last time, moving to New York for good. At Piarco he was last seen clutching a two-piece and fries to take to his mother waiting for him at JFK International.
He daren’t reach the States without it. There’s just one rule his mother insists upon when any family member visits: don’t walk with your hand swinging, walk with a box of chicken.
http://www.guardian.co.tt/lifestyle/2014-10-15/kfc-very-trini-obsession
