PCW Redux or: The anatomy of an exercise in creative writing

One year and one day ago, I told a story. Which may have included some creative liberties. It's for the best, I thought at the time. For the premise was there. And to become something great, all it needed was some patchwork, for some holes to be filled in, for a little softening around the edges. You know, like -- ahem -- adding in a whole middle and end. So I did that. And the resulting story went over fantastically. Like gangbusters.

A few days into my visit to New York in August, it occurred to me that if the stars aligned, a potential situation could occur that would bring the walls of my little story crumbling down, thus exposing the few creative liberties* that I may have taken.

*When I say "few creative liberties", I really mean "ridiculously huge amount of stuff that isn't all that true".

I panicked. And began to plan for the worst. Should it arise, what could I do to get myself out of said situation? Awkwardly change the topic of conversation? Dive out of the closest window? Scream "FIRE!" in a crowded theater? No, none of those would do. In fact, I came to the depressing conclusion that there really was nothing that I could do to avoid it except hope and pray that it wouldn't be raised. So I hoped. And I prayed.

And then on that fateful Saturday night, at dinner with Dave, Erin, Robert, Maz and Laurie -- before the party that welcomed Robert and me back to New York for the weekend -- my prayers were smashed. And the walls? Oh yes, my friends -- the walls, they came crumbling down.

So let's just get it out of the way right now: the majority -- okay, the vast majority -- of what's in my infamous Portuguese Chicken Wars post is made up. Not so much a lie, per se... let's use that term "creative liberties" again. And then multiply it several times over.

It all started off so innocently. For the premise of the post, that Shorty had emailed me before coming to Sydney to tell me about Ogalo, the fire there, and to never go to Portogali? True. The rumors of some tomfoolery regarding the fire and Portogali's possible involvement? (Not the rumors themselves, perhaps, just that there were rumors.) True. Everything else? Wellllllll...

Fine. I decided to have a little fun. And got carried away. It started off as a vague idea, quickly snowballed into a stream of consciousness, and became something great. And none of you can deny that, this much I know. That story is great. You all said as much. In emails. In comments on that post. In phone conversations. And in many more emails that followed.

But yeah, the story mostly belongs in the fiction section. With a bit of an emphasis on "mostly", because there is some truth to it. So maybe it should go into the "Based on a true story" section? Yeah, that's about right. In fact, let's call the story this blog's The Perfect Storm. Literally and figuratively. (And if you don't get that reference, just look at the first paragraph in the upper right part of this page.)

Anyway, no more creative liberties, no more beating around the bush, no more half-truths. Just the full truth, as we do PCW (Portuguese Chicken Wars) Redux:


A perfect segue indeed! For not only have I been back to Ole, not only have I been back to Portogali, and not only have I been to Ogalo since it (finally) reopened, but... BUT... BUT...

Well. Before we get to this "BUT" -- and it's a doozy -- let's first quickly hit on these three establishments and give you the 100% honest truth on each of them. Because if I'm not an open book, what am I?*

*This is a very rhetorical question. Please don't answer it.

Ole: This is the default establishment for our apartment. It's the closest (by a good ten seconds!), and, well, I'm not sure there's any other good reason. (As if that's good enough of a reason on its own.) The sauce that they serve with the hot chips* -- errrr, fries -- is good? One of the girls who works there is semi-attractive?

*This would be prego sauce, and it's amazing. I'm not sure exactly what it's made of, but it's some concoction of at least mayo, vinegar and maybe a few spices. That description absolutely doesn't do it justice, and may even perhaps make it sound disgusting, but believe me, it's earth-shattering stuff. Maybe not quite as good as sweet chili sauce and sour cream, but it's a close second. Anyway, each of the Portuguese places has their own prego sauce, but I'd probably rate Ole's as the best.

Portogali: A bit of the black sheep for us, although this of course -- of course! -- has nothing to do with the claim in Shorty’s original email that they burned down Ogalo. More simply, it's probably because this was the third entrant into the market, with Ole and Ogalo having already established themselves. I hardly ever go there, and based on my own grandmother research, it's the least frequented of the three Portuguese establishments. If that says anything.

Ogalo: Shorty's old favorite, and after he talked it up for the six freaking months that it took them to rebuild, I was beyond excited to try it when it first reopened. But to be honest, my first experience let me down. Maybe the expectations were set too high? Perhaps. Although I think the most telling sign is that Shorty doesn't frequent it as much as he did pre-fire. Has Ogalo lost whatever mojo it had going for it pre-fire? Or is there just no difference among the three establishments, thus allowing us to default to Ole?

And that last point, my friends, that may be the thing. There's a certain perceived level of parity among the three establishments, because they really don't do anything to differentiate themselves. Consider: They all have near-identical menus. They all are laid out in a similar fashion. They all have friendly employees, who would never, ever even dream of berating you for going to one of the other two places. (I mean, honestly...) So how do we choose? In our case, I think it's simply a matter of proximity. Even if that proximity is a matter of ten seconds. But that's not a good reason, is it? I say no, that there has to be a better way. However, that’s very much a conversation for another day. And we'll address it sometime soon.

Okay, back to the "but".

BUT...

Upon arriving back in Sydney from the US at the end of August, I was greeted with this news: a fourth is coming. A fourth Portuguese chicken restaurant. Right down the street from the other three. I shit you not. Because not one, not two and not even three Portuguese chicken restaurants within two minutes of each other is enough. Oh no. Someone actually thought, "I'd love to open a Portuguese chicken restaurant. I know, let's put it right near three others!" A conversation to this effect actually happened. And then it was acted upon. It's mind-boggling, it's inconceivable, it's fascinating, it's bewildering, it's hilarious, it's... well, it's any and every adjective ever invented.

With that said, let's welcome the newest Portuguese chicken restaurant to my neighborhood: Angelo's!


Excuse me while my head explodes. And as I prepare for the next stage of the Portuguese Chicken Wars.