Popeye's Revenge

It was my own fault to be sure. My first mistake was eating chicken prepared by a sailor. Now if I wanted to know how to tie a knot, navigate around the Horn, or do scrimshaw give me a sailor every time, for chicken one is best off hunting down an old Kentucky Colonel. He may not have actually cooked a chicken in his life, but unlike our hapless sailor would know that the government requires the chicken reach a safe internal temperature of 165 °F, and is then held at or above 135 °F until time for service. To be fair to the sailor after months at sea eating nothing but weevil-ridden hardtack, a piece of rotten chicken may seem like a treat, but my system was ill prepared for that nautical nonsense.



My second mistake was eating the piece of questionable meat. It felt cool to the touch, surely a bad sign. I’ve always had reservations about the place, picked over piles of chicken just lying there waiting for me, no way of telling what the temperature of the food is or even if Timmy, my chicken sales associate, is scrupulous about washing his hands after picking the scab from that new nose piercing. I guess after Korea and the Philippines I felt invincible when it came to food borne pathogens, but alas I was mistaken and spent the weekend feeling as though I’d been body slammed by a 75 pound Spotted Eagle Ray.


The moral of the story is beware what you eat whenever venturing out into the world of restaurants. I’ve worked at enough of them that I should know better – from watching as one proprietor removed fish from the garbage to re-cook and serve when he ran out of the fresh stuff, to the 10-second rule in operation, there be danger in those waters. You are your own last line of defense - if something seems off, send it back and walk away. Your gastrointestinal system will thank you later.