A distinct sense of excitement grows at work as word circulates that I’ll be taking my first trip to a local hotspot for lunch. The journey begins by piling in a car with 5 other people on a hot and muggy Friday afternoon. We drive 1 kilometer through the middle of town until we reach our destination: Anjo’s Chicken & Car Wash. People come from all around to have just a taste of their flame-braaied, peri-peri chicken.The owner, Ian, is in a corner in the back, sitting uncomfortably while recovering from the gunshot wound he received 6 weeks ago from a local competitor. Behind him, you can still see the burn marks on the wall from the recent fire-bombing. Indeed, the competition is fierce and of a different kind in Acornhoek. If you want to own a chicken and car wash then you gotta be tough and your chicken better be good.
We sit down in this dark, dingy place with dirt floors and graffiti-accented cement walls. If it’s not covered in grease then it probably just walked in. There are six tables and most of them are located in cavernous corners where conversations are private and others will not notice you. I am with a group of ten so I feel somewhat safe. However, I am always looking over my shoulder and checking my wallet to see if it’s still there.
We begin to order. As I hear the words, “Full Chicken. Extra hot!” and “Make mine super spicy!” my stomach braces itself for what could be the second installment of Shock and Awe. Fortunately, I am sitting across from a colleague …a sweet lady in her early 50s…who has seen plenty of hot and spicy food in her day and seeks to address my anxiety by assuring me we will share the mild version. I keep quite while she does the ordering. After she finishes ordering one mild full chicken and one can of Tab (I thought they discontinued that soda), the waiter turns to me and asks what I want to drink. I am not sure why but I am little scared to answer, however I am able to get out an insecure rendition of the words, “Sprite? May I have a can of Sprite, please?” Once the waiter finishes with our table he drops our order off at the kitchen and crosses the busy intersection almost getting hit by a truck full of bananas in order to pick up our drinks from the local quickie mart across the street. (There are only two crosswalks in Acornhoek and neither are even close to Anjo’s. If you thought George Costanza was good at Frogger wait until you see these guys at work.).
Soon, a bowl of water and a wet towel are passed around so that we can wash up. Knowing that for most of the people around the table this will be the first time today they have cleaned their hands, I hesitantly place mine just above the water and make the appropriate hand-washing motions hoping no one will notice I didn’t actually touch the bowl of what could only be disease-laden, bacteria-infested water. No deal. Someone is looking right at me. I have to put my hands in the water. I dry them with the communal towel that is now crawling with everyone’s germs. I will later realize this is the most sanitary it gets around here.
Today we’re lucky. The chicken comes on a paper plate. Typically the chicken arrives on their best china which means you will probably find some chicken bits from the previous carnivore since they don’t exactly go through a vigorous washing up process between customers. Everyone starts reaching for the chicken and begins ripping it apart with their bare hands. Across from me there is my colleague (the one who is looking out for me). She smiles and begins tearing the chicken to shreds. She and I are sharing one full, mild chicken today.
I have been careful not to touch the table since I noticed right off that the plastic tablecloth hasn’t been washed or changed since Anjo’s was established some 8 to10 years ago. I ask in my nasal American accent, “Where are the plates? What about the utensils?”. Most people are intent on devouring their chickens. Everyone at the table answers in unison, “Use your fingers! And put your bones on the table! (Naïve American!)”. I look around to find little piles of chicken bones in front of everyone. And I really mean just the bone. These bones have been pulled, picked, sucked, and slurped dry of any notion of chicken or joint or fat or marrow.
I start to squirm in my seat but begin to pull some chicken from the furthest corner of my closest competitor. Then the fries come. The sauce is incredible until you realize it is really just grease. I start in but stop suddenly when I see another co-worker sitting adjacent from me stick a handful of fries in his mouth with his fingers, licking them as he goes for another handful. It was painful to watch…even for me. I keep to the chicken. The chicken is amazing. Absolutely delicious once you look past the fact you are probably going to get hepatitis with a capital C or whatever is ailing the guy sitting next to you. Realizing there are no napkins and my only opportunity at cleaning my hands is to stick them back into the green plastic bowl of water, I sip on the only clean thing in front of me, my one and only friend that day (besides the nice colleague who was looking out for me), Sprite. I look across the table and catch the eye of another patron who smiles at me with teeth full of chicken and a glimmer in her eye. Happiness. People start to notice that the sweet lady sitting across from me has a bone yard of chicken bones in front of her while I have just a drumstick and a wing. The laughter begins and the comments start coming. I sit and take it while sipping on my Sprite hoping I didn’t just catch Hep C. Happiness? I think so!
