I've taken note of all the recommendations for CofSt.C, and resolved last night to give it a go, being a fan of the bird.
Initially, I was a bit discombobulated, as I guess I was expecting a bit of a restaurant. There were just a few stools in the back, but nothing that me, significant other and Junior #1 and Junior #2 could sit at. C'est la vie! Chalk it up to not doing the research. We decided to get the takeout then find a nice park with picnic table for a feast au naturel.
We chose two #1 combos, the chicken with potatoes and rice. The extremely bored, distressed-at-where-I-am order taker mumbled "barbecue or grilled". I, still cheerful at the prospect of the 'best churrasco in town' asked, "Oh! I don't know! What would you recommend?", only to be met with a blank "like I care" stare. Okay, "One of each, please, and an order of fries for the kitlins".
Now granted, it wouldn't be a place that I'd aspire to work at, but, well, there wasn't a whole lot of love put into the food, if you know what I mean. "Surly", "Defeated" and "Lost" were the words that came to mind as I watched our order get prepared.
Bags 'o bird in hand, we set out to Joseph Piccininni park (sp) at StC and Lansdowne to indulge our poultry tooth. Safely ensconced beside another table where the young teenage girls were getting busted for underage drinking by a couple of cops, we tucked into the chow. Looked nice (or as nice as food can look in an extruded plastic container), and smelled great. I got the fries ready first to hand to the screeling little 'uns, and said my first "uh oh" of the night. Granted, they had to endure a 5 minute car ride in a takeout container in a plastic bag, but the 'daders were limp and bland. Think Kentucky Fried Chicken fries from years ago, before they switched to the crispy corporate fries. Inedible.
Ok, but it's a chicken place. Not a fry truck, right? I had the bar-b-q bird, so in I went, using my fingers for leverage. First bite from the hind quarters, of dark meat with a bit of skin... merely ok. And from there, it went downhill. The white meat was, as is so often the case, dry. Not as dry as other places, but dry it was. Tucking the meat into the little takeout containter of hot sauce gave it a bit of flavour and moisture, but failed to excite.
The potatoes: a bit of a 'barbecue' flavour to them, but otherwise bland, from-the-steam-table starch. The rice: the same, even with some clumps. Not much flavour to speak of.
The can of gingerale was good.
One of the girls took the fall for the booze, and the cop, commending her, suggested to the others that they might all chip in to the $130 fine.
And that was C of St.C.