Andrew J. Lederer

I excitedly went to the newly-renovated Kentucky Fried Chicken in my neighborhood, partly because it was a welcome addition to the culinary landscape of the area (and all shiny and new) and partly because I had gone to KFC a number of times with someone I liked in London and wanted to feel connected and magical by doing the same thing here.

But they ruined it by giving me what seemed to be Extra Crispy instead of Original.

I wasn't sure because it had the Original Recipe taste but was dry and crispier than normal -- kind of a hybrid. I liked it, actually, but didn't think it was sufficient to render me magically connected. (And this disconnection may have been at the root of later troubles.)

Anyway, the other day I went again and this time, for sure (I think), they gave me Extra Crispy.

Then, they replaced it with . . .

Extra Crispy?

The hybrid?

It was impossible to tell, so I ate them both and left. (I got an extra biscuit, too.)

Later that night, I was at a bar, after hours, with the cute puppeteer.

She asked me if I wanted a beer, then went off and got herself a Guinness.

But she gave me a Stella. (I didn't even get a biscuit.)