A poultry tale

27.09.2013

 

Welcome to "La Grillade du Château" in Ventenac, next to the Canal du Midi, serving mostly unsuspecting boating tourists.

 

Like greeters at Wal-Mart, these two met us at the door.  They may look like chocolate Easter chickens, but they are the real thing.  We were soon seated at one of the many tables in this immense courtyard, shaded by branches from some big old trees.  Perfect perch for the smaller, but more abundant tweety birds.

"Cluck cluck", said the Little Red Hen.

"Cluck cluck", said the Little Black Hen.

Follow me.

No, this way.

Let me get my bearings.



 

"My my.  What pretty shoes you have.  Are they edible?  Please allow me just a little peck."

 

 "Sir, are you really eating CHICKEN for lunch?"

"I'd say that's rather cheeky!"  The little Red Hen turned and strutted away.

As the two girls preened, they discussed how insensitive that man was to have ordered the chicken on the menu.  "Has he no heart", moaned the Little Red Hen.

The Little Black Hen thought she'd get a few pecks when no one was looking, just to demonstrate how terribly upset she was.

And where was I when this tale was unfolding?  Why, looking up the number for the Ministry of Health.  Between the swarm of swallows in the trees and the chickens running around, I was ensuring my pizza would not be the bull's eye for their torpedoes.  The birds won.  I came home with a white calling card on the back of my sweater.

Now I understand why the owner actually used a garden hose with a powerful spray to clean the outside kitchen. What with a hose down and a brisk sweep, the kitchen was clean. 

I'm still trying to reach the Ministry of Health as I read up on Bird Flu.