Not So Down With That Cluck

Last year we tried to find a Chick-Fil-A for La Gringa in Salt Lake...an hour went by wandering the streets around the Mormon Temple before we gave up completely and ate some crappy airport food. This year, we were determined to prevail:

2 p.m. -- Begin to track down the Clucker Burger on La Gringa's iPhone.

2:30- p.m. -- Head straight onto a no-turn highway headed for Park City after Google Maps advises us to: "Exit onto I80 West. Veer right onto I80 East."

2:45 p.m. -- La Gringa and I begin a "gentle disagreement" where I want to blow off the Big G and little i and call 411. Begrudgingly, she does. We call the number for Chick-Fil-A and...it's disconnected.

3 p.m. -- Find our way to downtown where a street worker tells us to find the damn chook and looks at us rather weird, pointing us to 50 Main Street. Finding the address, we found the entire building being torn down as.we.drove.by.

3:15 p.m. -- In fits, I mean F-ing fits, we finally break down and ask a driver where the hell this goddamn chicken shop is. She gives us exact directions: they take us dead-stop into the Delta Center, home of the Utah Jazz. Unless Carlos Boozer is a clucker-in-disguise, we were, again, in the wrong place.

3:30 p.m. -- Mouthwatering we find a mall where we hear there's a chick shop inside. We find a planitarium and a nice little lady that tells us that there's no poultry in sight.

3:45 p.m. -- We find a CPK, which thrills Thing 1 when he tells us that CPK and "Triple A" (Chick-Fil-A) rhyme.

Bastard.

Maybe next year...