Here's a short discourse on my experience with fried chicken in Central America.

August 2000. I'm in San Salvador, and there are Pollo Campero restaurants almost on every street. Where there's not, a restaurant, there's a billboard. In the street itself, there are pickups and motorcycle delivery with signs showing the cowboy hat-wearing chicken, "Pollo Campero" and the phone number--apparently there's a central dispatch. I ask my friend and international peace activist Chencho Alas what Campero is all about, and he wretches and talks about how its a disgusting, greasy, salty heart atack; basically KFC. So I assumed he wasn't taking us there.

On the flight back to Houston, every single Salvadoran man, woman, and child had some Campero to go; there was a branch right there in the airport. Since Chencho was gone, I asked the woman in front of me in line what the deal was with the Campero. She looked at me shaking her head. "You can't get this in the States. This is good fried chicken. You cannot find anything like this in the states. You can't get this at Kentucky."

July 2004. I'm in Antigua Guatemala, it's my 2nd day here, and the rest of my group hasn't arrived yet. I'm on my own for dinner. So finally, four years after that salvadorana's testimony, I'm going to see what the fuss was about. I go into the snooty looking Campero (the word "pollo" seems to have disappeared from the logo) that's just off the Parque Central, right on the shi-shi Quinta Avenida.

It looks like any other fast food restaurant with a big noisy dining room. I notice that there's a to-go counter and a big line; forget it. I ask the guard if I'm supposed to wait to be seated; he says yes. After a minute he taps me on the shoulder and tells me to sit at one of the empty tables. Fine.

I order extra crispy tipico; pechuga. When it comes, it's a stingy handfull of dead fries, some machine-made cole slaw, a roll, and a pepsi. The chicken? It's a couple of steps up from KFC, but not as good as Secret Chicken in Seattle. However, since Secret Chicken Lady has passed on (may her soul rest in peace, amen) so Campero might be a close second to Ezel's spicy.

I ask the waitress a lot of questions. Do I eat with fork and knife? no. How much do you tip in Guatemala? 10% or more. Where do I get an umbrella? turn right at the Parque and walk three blocks to the market. Do you bargain? At the market, yes. How much should I pay for an umbrella? 30Q should do it.

When I get to the market, I find me an umbrella stand and I get ready to beat the man down to 30Q. He offers me 15Q. I'm surprised, and I'm not sure what to say. I tell him fine, I don't want to bargain, and I give him his less than $2 and walk away.

August 2004. My program is over, and tomorrow we leave for Panajachel, which is a resort town in the mountains on Lake Atitlan. People call it "Pana" or smirk and call it "Gringotenango." So last day in Antigua, and I'm on my own for dinner.

I know the drill this time. I sit down, and when the waitress finally comes, I order the traditonal super; pechuga. This is basically the same as last time, but original recipe instead of crispy.

I prefer crispy.

Before I leave, my waitress from 2 weeks ago recognizes me and asks me how I've been, asks me if I've been to Peten; I say yes, even though I haven't. Have a great day, I say! You too! She is in love with me.

The first rule of working at a fried chicken restaurant should be "don't flirt with the customers." I should have told her about the umbrella.

I walk to the plaza and order a blackberry granita, which tasts like blackberry pie, and drank half of it. There is such a thing as too much blackberry granita. They should offer it with a scoop of ice cream.

I walked into the park, and a Mayan lady tries to convince me to buy a huipil. Why don't you buy from me? she asks me in English. When she hears my Spanish, she tells me to buy one for my mother, What, you don't love your mother? She follows me the length of the park, talking about how hard business has been and how I speak spanish well. I find her a group of eager Salvadorans and wish her well. Otro dia, pues.

I'm going to buy some picamas.