Standing in the smoke filled Portuguese Chicken Shop last night, inhaling the deep dark flavours of oil basted pork, and chickens, split and splayed flat between wire frames, I was at the mercy of my senses when deciding what was for dinner; some of everything it turns out. Shiny glistening meat, exploding tiny sprays of oil, ok, fat, blackened as the grills were manually turned, sending my nose and mouth into a drooling mess. “ Chicken, pork ribs, and rice thanks. Yeah, with olive oil and chilli sauce. Thanks.” The talk was Tim. I don’t speak the lingo in these parts. We then stepped aside to allow the next customer in. There were four sweating, shiny skinned workers; two women preparing, one man standing guard over the charcoal grills, and an older woman, though not as
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