Broasted Chicken Cafe

The hotel I’m staying in (tonight’s the last night!) has remarkably little to commend it, though it’s not actually awful in any particular way — just rather uniformly mediocre and uninteresting. About the best part of it is the restaurant on the ground floor; I’ve eaten there each night this week and had a very pleasant, quality meal each time. I’d particularly recommend the smoked chicken pasta.

But tonight I decided to take a little walk through the immediate area to see if I could find something a little different for dinner. I was actually a bit early for many restaurants; about 4 PM. I’d left the office early to work in the quiet of the hotel room, only to find a rather raucous get-together was happening in the room next to mine. Sigh. So an early supper would make a good escape.

I walked a few blocks uphill on Market Street, away from the Civic Center, just enjoying the walk and waiting for some eatery to catch my fancy. A small cafe; neat and uncrowded, advertised in big letters on a metal sign over the door “Broasted Chicken Cafe” — I happen to be a fan of broasted chicken, and the place looked like it might be safe to eat in (several others I’d passed were not so highly qualified), so I stepped inside.

A fellow who appeared to be from somewhere in South Asia — perhaps Sri Lanka, or southern India, or even Thailand — greeted me very pleasantly and prepared to take my order. I looked over the menu above the counter, and to my surprise didn’t see a single item with broasted chicken. There were some tasty looking panini, wraps, soups, and salads on the menu, but not one item with chicken, much less broasted chicken. Also no broaster in sight.

So I asked the fellow behind the counter where the broasted chicken items were. He looked at me as though he’d just discovered he was in the company of a lunatic, and thought that a bit worrisome. With a very thick accent, he said: “No chicken! Panini, wrap, soup, salad, very good. No chicken! No chicken!"

"But…", I said, “the sign outside says 'broasted chicken'.” I should have known better than to question him.

"No chicken sign!", he said, looking worried — and then he ran out from behind the counter and right out the door, beckoning me to follow him. He pointed to the tiny little sidewalk sign — a small folding sign with a chalkboard on both sides — and repeated “No chicken sign!"

So I pointed up to the large sign over his door that said “Broasted Chicken Cafe” — and I couldn’t resist; I said “Chicken Sign!"

My fellow looked at that sign, squinted, and tilted his head sideways — looking for all the world like someone who had truly never seen the sign over his door before. He looked surprised. Then he looked at me and said, definitively, “No chicken!"

And went back inside. Where I followed and meekly ordered a ham and swiss panini and some potato salad. Both were outstanding; I actually went back for more potato salad, which was absolute spudly perfection.

But it wasn’t broasted chicken.