A great tragedy occurred today. The Popeyes in the city I go to school in closed down. But that’s not the tragedy. The tragedy is that I still ordered chicken from the “restaurant” that took over. To fully understand the extent of this disaster, lemme give ya’ll a little background: there once was a girl (me) who with her best friend and roommate, Dawg, (so called for reasons of anonymity) used to give plasma for cash while in college at LSU. Now the first place that the girl and Dawg used to visit after giving the blood from their bodies was Popeyes, where the girl would order a number two (with the upcharge) and the Dawg liked to drink strawberry drink. So you see, it could be said that Popeyes is in the girl’s blood.
Now this other, fake Popeyes took down the sign from outside but is in the same building. When I went in (I was suspicious and didn’t want to go through the drive-thru) they still had the same menu pictures up, only there were these stickers on the edge that said “Cajun Cooking.” I should’ve walked out the door when I ordered cajun rice and red beans n rice and they were “out.” But the girl behind the counter said the chicken tasted the same when I commented, “So I guess Popeyes closed down.” Now the manager (another young woman) got a little pissy when I said that (she didn’t exactly slam chicken around, but you get the idea). While I was waiting for my order, another customer came in and when girl #1 asked what she could get him he said he needed a minute because he was expecting Popeyes. I shook my head up and down vigorously and said “Me too!” I maybe should’ve also been clued in by the fact that they didn’t put my chicken in a box, but instead put it in a ghetto little container like what you’d eat a hamburger n fries out of if you were dining in.
It gets worse! When I got back to the car and started driving, I thought to myself: this doesn’t have the same good chicken smell that Popeyes does.
No.
It smelled like peanut oil.
"Cajun cooking" chicken
So while driving, I did a little chicken picken (you know how you do) and that’s when I realized the extent of the mistake I had made. This was NOT Popeyes. The girl misspoke when she said it tasted the same. A Louisianian can tell. Especially one that has spicy chicken in the blood. So what’s a girl to do but call a Dawg and bitch? Dawg definitely felt my pain and misery (even though she evilly asked if my phone had camera capabilities . . . meaning she was gonna go to a REAL Popeyes and take a picture to send me). But the final insult came when I got home. The cajun mashed potatoes that I ordered instead of either cajun rice or red beans n rice had WHITE gravy on them. Insult added to injury.Now the nearest Popeyes is two hours away, and I could justify driving that distance if there weren’t a plasma center closer. What’s a girl to do?
