Thirty-One Chickens

'That lady has thirty-one chickens!' the cashier tells me. She points and I look towards the exit, to where the automatic doors slide apart to release a woman pushing a trolley laden with planks. 'She's building a coop for them.'

'I thought that was illegal.'

'Anyone can build a coop for their chickens,' she tells me. 'I have chickens too.'

'I mean I thought it was illegal to have so many.' I try to remember how many chickens Byron has in his own back garden. 'I thought there was some city law preventing anyone keeping more than eight.'

'There is,' she says. 'That lady lives outside of the city, so she has thirty-one.'

'Wow,' I say, submitting my purchases to the cashier's scanner - a new air filter for the lawnmower and a bottle of oil for the chainsaw.

The farm on which I grew up, the one upon which they eventually built the set for Teletubbies, was next to a chicken farm, and Paul, who lived on that chicken farm was my best friend at school. There were seventy-five thousand chickens on his farm, and I recall the figure because he reminded us of it from time to time; and apparently he reminded Tom Mahon of the statistic with such frequency that Tom often referred to him as Seventy-Five Thousand Chickens by way of a nickname.

'Do you live on Corinne?' I ask the cashier. I notice that she's actually sort of foxy, an older Latina with beautiful grey hair, and I realise that my question probably sounds like a come on.

Maybe I could stop by a little later…

'I always used to go past this house with chickens out in the back garden,' I tell her with increased urgency. 'I just meant that I wondered if that was you, as you have chickens.'

'I know that house,' she tells me with some caution, although maybe it's my imagination. 'I live over that way. Is it Sumner? On the corner?'

'Yes, on the corner. I think it's the last one before you get to Eisenhauer. Anyway, the chickens haven't been there recently,' I add, now wondering why the hell I mentioned it in the first place.

'I know the house you mean. That will be $17.82.'

I try to remember whether I insert my card into the slot or slide it down the thing at the side. Whichever one I do, the display always seems to tell me I should have done the other one.

'A lot of people keep chickens,' the cashier adds. 'My neighbour - he had chickens too.'

Do I want cash, yes or no…

'Well, they were all males so they weren't chickens. They were roosters.'

'Ouch,' I say. 'I hope he enjoyed getting up early in the morning.'

'Isn't that funny,' the woman says thoughtfully.

'I guess he didn't need the eggs,' I say, noticing how I now remind myself of some old boy, one lame observation after another.

'Only one reason a man keeps just roosters,' the woman says. She scowls lightly.

'Ewww,' I say as the penny drops.

I leave with my air filter and my oil in a grey polythene bag. I think of the dead bull terrier I once found in a cardboard box on the Holbrook Road. I called animal control. They said it was probably the collateral from some illegal dog fight, probably dumped.

So that turned dark pretty quickly, as the saying goes.

Don't Eat Here

On Saturday the 21st of September, 2002, I wrote the following in my diary.

I'm thinking of cashing in on this TV chef fad. I had an idea for my own show, all done on shaky camcorder with me in my own kitchen cooking up my version of Mexican food - lots of close ups of the bin as I mutter I don't believe in food hygiene - it's all bollocks in the background. It's all bollocks, would become my catchphrase just like Jamie Oliver's Dick Van Dykisms. My face would be on tins of Sainsbury's produce captioned go ahead, eat it; what's the fucking worst that could happen? A second idea along these lines would be my book Don't Eat Here, a guide to all the misleading eateries into which I have stumbled.

Seventeen years later, it seems like my cookery show isn't going to happen; and Don't Eat Here is probably a bit of a non-starter given that I try to avoid eating at crap restaurants and diners, so the list is thus far hardly of length sufficient to justify an entire book; nevertheless and for what it may be worth, should you, gentle reader, happen to find yourself in San Antonio, I'd recommend giving the following a wide berth. A couple of these have actually shut up shop, but the advice should still be heeded if you're a time traveller.

Chili's Grill & Bar. Someone described this sort of joint as Chuck-E-Cheese for adults, although it wasn't Wikipedia because they describe it as a casual dining restaurant chain. There are a fucking million of these places dotted along every single highway, each parking lot heaving with trucks spilling gurgling knuckleheads out across the asphalt. Once inside you will find a lively environment, as I'm sure they call it, with a thousand flat screens just above head height and every single one showing a ball game of some description. The deafening soundtrack will comprise either football commentary and associated amiable horseshit or hair metal hits of the eighties. The food is brightly coloured and highly reflective due to some weird glaze, even the burger buns. Everything drips with a bright yellow goop approximating cheese, and if you so choose, it's actually possible to order a side of fries with your burger and fries burger, which comes with fries; and coke; or children's fizzy beer if your name is Josh or Greg or Hunter or one of those.

There's a guy with a dog who lives in one of the houses at the back of our own. Every once in a while I hear him calling to the dog as I work in the back garden. The dog's name is Bear, and the man has a deep, slow voice. He enunciates each word as though someone has hit him around the side of the head with a baseball bat only a moment before. One evening I heard him calling to his dog, variations on the same sentence over and over. 'Come on, Bear… don't you be a coward now, Bear…'

I have no idea what was going on, but I'll bet he eats at Chili's.

Chili's proves that the free market economy does not work.

Flair. Everybody in Alamo Heights seemed to think Flair was amazing, but then I never cease to be amazed by what people in Alamo Heights consider amazing. Mexican street food, they screeched all across our local bit of internet. The term refers to what is simply known as food in Mexico itself and, practically speaking, means tacos but nothing else typically served on a Mexican street. We therefore ordered tacos. The waitress was of the kind who endeavours to involve herself in the diner's existence by commenting awesome in response to one's order, as though surprised and impressed by our choices, perhaps not having realised that tacos were on the menu at her place of work. There were ten or twelve other members of staff watching, having nothing else to do because we were the only customers. Our tacos came and they were nice enough - although pathetic compared to the standard of those served at the mighty Cocina el Jibarazo on Austin Highway - and they cost about three times what they should have cost, presumably because that's what the dingbats of Alamo Heights expect to pay. As we left, the waitress informed us that we might like to keep Sunday free because they would be having a DJ, meaning we could eat average but grossly overpriced tacos while a young man with a beard tickled the decks with a crucial selection of proper nang tunes. We didn't go back on Sunday, or indeed ever again.

The Granary. Admittedly this was a few years ago, and Bess had told me that lunchtime at the Granary was amazing. Unfortunately we went in the evening which is characterised by a different menu and, seemingly, a different approach to the dining experience. I don't remember what I had, and I don't remember it being bad, but I distinctly recall that the waiter spent at least five minutes telling me what the chef was going to do, and liquid nitrogen may have been involved. This delayed my waiter's return to the kitchen with my order by at least five minutes, which was annoying because I was hungry and didn't really give a shit how the chef was planning to prepare whatever it was that I'd ordered. For all I cared, he could have eaten the ingredients, shat them directly onto the street outside, and then driven a steam roller backwards and forwards over the resulting fecal patty, providing it tasted good. I suspect this gastronomic prologue formed part of an holistic dining experience, at least judging by the drinks being served in fucking jam jars.

J. Alexander's, which I can't quite keep myself from thinking of as J. Arthur's, is another of those casual dining things, but without the million flat screen tellies. The food seems initially promising, providing you're not put off by all the toadying, congratulations on your choice and so on. The main problem is that when the food arrives, it's not great, and worse is that it's almost great yet isn't, presenting a culinary analogy of that truism about androids and how the closer they come to appearing human without actually quite getting there, the weirder and more upsetting they seem. I ate at this place quite a few times due to the preference of a family member, and even food which tasted decent left me feeling as though I'd gorged a bucket of salted lard for the rest of the afternoon. The very last time I ate there I had some pasta thing which was so salty it made my mouth sore as I was trying to eat it.

Jack in the Box. My word probably isn't worth much here as I've only eaten at Jack in the Box once, and it was nearly a decade ago. Jack in the Box is a burger chain in the McDonald's mode distinguished mainly by a greater emphasis on irony in their advertising. I was in one of those moods where you just want to eat something cheap and crappy, and so I ordered what I believe may have been a burrito. I'm not wild about burritos anyway, so it wasn't a great choice, but I only discovered that I wasn't wild about burritos after I ate this one which was essentially a tube of dense, endless meat. It was wrapped in a tortilla and was hot and heavy. It felt like a cosh, something which could be used in a fight, and was additionally so salty that it made me cry. I doubt there's enough irony in the world to get me eating another one of those things, and if it helps illustrate my thesis, I might draw your attention to the fact of McDonald's having failed to make this list.

Lupe Tortilla. It seemed like a bit of an event when the Lupe Tortilla chain opened a restaurant in San Antonio, but as we realised once we ate there, whilst the place might seem a big deal in Houston, we have actual Mexican food in San Antonio and therefore no real reason to eat what is essentially Mexican food for white people. Fancifying and generally pissing about with what is on the plate doesn't fool anyone. Additionally irritating was being asked whether we had eaten at Lupe Tortilla before as we were shown a table, the implication being that we might need to prepare ourselves for having our collective and figurative gastronomic nuts blown off. This would have been fine had they served us something amazing, but instead we got Mexican food for white people and a waitress zipping back to ask how we were enjoying it every three fucking minutes. Admittedly, the second time we went - invited by a friend to celebrate her daughter's graduation - the food was significantly better but, you know, first impressions and everything...

Olive Garden. This is yet another chain, but a notionally Italian one, Italian here mostly translating into a large garden spade's worth of pasta dripping with cheese sauce; which presents a genuinely mouth-watering prospect when you're in one of those moods where you yearn to be pumped full of the saltiest carbohydrates money can buy, but every decision I've ever made at Olive Garden has inevitably turned to regret somewhere around the third or fourth mouthful. Further regret is encountered when the bill arrives, along with generous helpings of incredulity.

Southside Chinese. It wasn't called Southside Chinese, but it was on the southside and neither Bess nor myself can remember what the place was called. The one thing Bess does remember is being seated upon the lavatory when an elderly gentleman entered the cubicle and already had his pants down with the words, 'I really need to go,' before she was able to fully assess the situation, dress herself, or even finish her own business. It probably wouldn't have mattered quite so much had the food been great, but unfortunately it was mostly a sort of warm, faintly spicy grease to which soft, tasteless matter had been added apparently so we could tell that it wasn't soup. Amazingly, the place has since closed.

Alamo Fish 'n' Chips. There's another fish place more deserving of inclusion in this list, but they're supposedly something to do with the perfectly legitimate business operations of a local group of legitimate Mexican-American businessmen, if you know what I'm saying. The food was lousy, took ages to arrive, and the staff seemed puzzled by our order. Other customers seemed to pay much more for their own orders, and I'm guessing in used notes, but the packages they received in return didn't look a whole lot like anything they were likely to be tucking into once they got back to their trucks. However, I'm absolutely certain that these transactions were all entirely above board and legal, with no suspicious dimension whatsoever, and I don't want any trouble, so Alamo Fish 'n' Chips it is. There's a big old Union Jack painted on the sign outside, and although the crinkle cut chips served are just like those my grandmother used to bring back from Tesco and then fry in her chip pan, the fish is frozen and therefore not really anything special. Furthermore, the ceviche promised by the menu seems to be there only so as to lure my wife, who has thus far always arrived just as some other customer has allegedly scoffed the last dollop; and the guy kept asking me how it was every two bleeding minutes seeing as how I'm from England and all, which was annoying. The invitation on their facebook page reads Please come joy us many items on Specials, fresh & tasty Seafood, lightly on batter, home made tartar sauce and coleslaw you not going disappointed but I'm afraid I prefer Long John Silver's. 

Wing Zone. I still don't understand how it's possible to get fried chicken wrong, but America found a way. The best fried chicken seems to be the cheapest and crappiest, for some reason, usually the kind served with the faintest suggestion that whoever prepared it has spent the morning changing the oil in their car and hasn't bothered to wash their hands. Being situated at over five thousand miles distance from south-east London, amongst my less enticing options are Popeyes which specialises in gradually serving the dryest, least succulent, and most mouth-desiccating meals derived from an egg-laying bird; and Wing Zone which is similar but with a bright orange sauce which tastes like what happens when you hold the terminals of a nine volt battery against your tongue.

Golf

We're at La Gloria, down by the river. It's approximately Mexican, but due to the location caters mainly to braying pricks with too much money; so we have bits of farm machinery nailed to the walls for the sake of ambience, bottled beer or five billion varieties of marguerita, and the sort of fare which inevitably draws screeching twats who just love love love that num nummy numptious Mexican street food. Everything above head height is a television screen blasting out the game, the Dallas Cowboys legendary play off against the Dallas Cowboys or something of that general nature. Men in helmets and padding have grunting fights which last two seconds before we cut to five minutes of grinning salesmen discussing what just happened as though it matters.

I am here because my wife is here, and because Zara has just chucked in her job and is moving to Austin. There are a load of folks from the office so why not, I figured. I know some of them. We enter the bar and familiar faces mouth greetings which I don't hear due to the noise of the Dallas Cowboys legendary play off against the Dallas Cowboys, except for Hunter. I hear him fine. I had my fingers crossed in hope of his having stayed home, but no luck.

'Hey buddy!' he bellows like I'm some long lost pal, eyes big and deep like those of a needy hound, the kind which eventually tries to hump your leg. 'It's been a long time!'

That's because we don't actually know each other, which is in turn because we aren't friends due to having nothing in common besides very vaguely mutual friends, but I say, 'Sure.'

He's clearly been hoping I would show, and I don't like to think why. I'm trying to say hello to a few of the others, people I actually sort of know. 'So when we gonna party?'

'Huh?' I'm caught out. It's a truly weird question.

'You and me, we're gonna party!' There's something seriously creepy about the smile on his face. I'm trying not to think about what it could mean.

'No,' I state firmly. 'We're not. You don't know me. I don't party. That's all there is to it.'

'We're gonna party, buddy!'

'No, we aren't. You are mistaken.'

'We're gonna party.'

Maybe it's meth. Maybe it's booze. Maybe it's just Hunter.

Bess pulls me to a seat at the opposite end of the table, which is thankfully fourteen or fifteen feet in length with others from the office all packed around the circumference. We squeeze in between Bob and Santina. I wave distantly at Rowena.

Rowena arranged our wedding. Bess and I were married within a month of my arriving in America, although obviously we had known each other longer. It was just going to be a registry office, but Rowena said oh hell no, possibly whilst doing that cobra head wiggle made popular by disgruntled female guests on talk shows.

Oh no you di'nt, girlfriend.

So Rowena arranged it all, or most of it, or some of it. They all showed up at our house. Edi ordered cupcakes. Rowena made enchiladas, and the preacher was a friend of her husband - and her husband was Hunter; so that's how I know him.

Hunter and I stood out in the garden smoking. I was in a state akin to shellshock. I dislike crowds and it was my wedding day, or at least the day of the ceremony, the stuff you tend to remember. Hunter was simply entertained to meet an English dude.

Tonight it seems that he's back with Rowena, which is why he's here at La Gloria guzzling bottled beer. It's hard to keep track. She sticks with him because he's good with the kids and takes care of them while she's at work, and because he's so handsome.

Some weekends he disappears, just vanishes without a word and doesn't answer his phone. It's meth and hookers, and specifically pre-operative male to female transexual hookers, although apparently his thing is enemas, so maybe it doesn't quite count as sex, or at least not intercourse. You would probably have to ask Bill Clinton about that.

He usually resurfaces, regretting everything or regretting some of it. Someone told me that the deal with transexual hookers is a surprisingly common pendant to meth abuse, although I don't know if that's true. It's just a thing for Hunter, but everybody is a little bit curious, right? I mean, we all love to see that shit, don't we? This is usually the case for his defence as he swears never to succumb to temptation ever again, or at least not for another couple of weeks as it usually turns out. Once he came back claiming to have found God, and even made plans to train as a preacher.

We always wondered who Rowena's facebook posts were for, each time the fucker crawled back, and there he was doing a little dance while firing up the barbecue because baby, you so crazy, filmed on a phone with a string of hearts and hashtags, that man of mine. I guess the posts were for Rowena herself. One of these days she'll change the locks. One of these days she'll come to her senses.

Hunter grins at me from the far end of the table, mouthing something about a party which isn't going to happen because I don't really do parties and no-one is sticking a rubber tube up my bum, no matter how nicely they ask.

The football has changed to golf across the upper half of the room, and somehow it's still deafening.

'Really?' I mutter to Bess. 'Does anyone who isn't a complete wanker really give a shit about golf?'

Bob, who clearly gives a number of shits about golf picks up on the one word, my identification of his favourite sporting pastime. He leans over and begins to tell us about golf, and about playing on courses in Scotland, which is of obvious interest to me because I was born somewhere near there; but it's still a better proposition than the one with the meth and a length of rubber tubing.

Pillock

So that wasn't Nico we were protesting outside the church with to stop Viraj Mendez from being deported in Manchester?, you said. Okay, thanks for clearing that up.

I had to read the twisted grammar twice because my first impression was that you were claiming to have protested Nico, formerly of the Velvet Underground. This would have squared fairly well with my initial point:

I usually try to steer clear of general grumbling about Trump and the proposed wall, but today found myself in violent disagreement with the former drummer of the Velvet Underground on the subject. Luckily this requires no reassessment of a much loved back catalogue of work with a peg over my nose because I always thought the Velvet Underground were pure shite; so that's nice.

It was then pointed out to me that the rest of the fuckers had probably  been Republicans anyway, so none of it makes much difference in the great scheme of things; and that was when you blew your top, swooping in to expose our shameful ignorance of Nico protesting outside the church to stop Viraj Mendez from being deported.

That showed us.

I'm a snowflake, you explained. I get emotional when people go after dead friends.

I wish I'd known about your friendship with Nico of the Velvet Underground.

What was she like? What was her favourite food? When you all went to the pub, did she stand her round or was it the case that she always seemed to have mysteriously gone off for a piss when it was her shout?

I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised, given your close personal friendship with Adam Ant. I remember when that guy said something or other about a Nine Inch Nails song.

I will never buy Trent's records until he pays Adam what is owed to him, you boldly proclaimed, standing firm as a mighty sentinel against the injustice of wayward royalties. I'll bet Adam is glad to have someone like you on his side, although I didn't realise you knew Trent Reznor as well.

Fuck.

Who don't you know?

Did you and Adam ever go to the pub with Nico? What I would have given to have overheard that conversation. Did you all get up and walk out when Trent came in for a pint and a packet of salt and vinegar, or was that before Nine Inch Nails covered that old Adam & the Ants song, back when you were all pals together?

You once told me you had been in a punk band back in Blackpool. I asked what they had been called, because I used to read a lot of punk fanzines, and I even know a couple of Blackpool people who played in punk bands. It seemed like there might even be a slim chance I had heard of you. Maybe you know Simon or Stan?

Sadly you didn't have time to tell me the name of the band you had been in because, as you explained, you were just about to start your shift at Whataburger, and had you told me the name of the Blackpool punk band you had been in that I might have heard of, then you might have made yourself late for your shift at Whataburger; so I'm just glad that didn't happen because I would have felt guilty.

Phew.

It's a shame we didn't get to meet when you were here in San Antonio. I mean, here we are in Texas, both originally from England, both fans of the same stuff - roughly speaking, and it would have been great to meet up and compare notes; and I saw that you were at the museum. You know that's a five minute drive from my front door, right? I guess it was just a little bit too difficult so it didn't happen, but maybe next time you're in town, or maybe Bess and I will be able to visit you if we happen to be over there on your side of the state…

Who fucking knows?