I don’t advise eating at Rooster’s Quarters on Denman St. in Vancouver. Unless “Montreal Style Rotisserie Chicken” means chicken with skin the texture of a stale cracker and flavour that is made good by the Tabasco in the gravy, I don’t think the experience was authentic. Plus, my whole life I’ve been hearing about poutine and the glory that lies therein? We paid extra for the poutine instead of regular fries and all it was was fries with more Tabasco gravy and five cheese curds tossed in for colour. Saint Aardvark enjoyed his pot pie but he enjoys anything in pie form so take that endorsement with a grain of pie.
Pie!
It is the year of the rooster, so maybe it’s a bad time to eat them.
I found out today that Rick Cluff is a Tiger, as am I, which explains our many combative interactions. Oh, I am not imagining these interactions. I really do shout and growl at the radio in the morning. Don’t you want to come over to my house?
Well, if you do and you live in the 604, give me a dingle, by which I mean email, or perhaps leave a comment, as we’re having a birthday housewarming rooster wine and probably cake party on Friday the 11th.
3 Responses to Roosters, Baby