Okay, okay. Per request, I will tell my story of Pattaya, home of the garbage chicken. I apologize; this story is long and rambling. I haven’t had much to do today.
So I don’t know how many of you have ever driven down Hollister in Old Town Goleta and noticed this building that used to be home of “Alex’s Cantina”. Alex’s Cantina had the dubious distinction of being the first “club” I’d ever gone to – and I went when I was 13… so we can see how awesome the party scene is in the OTG. Anyhow, Alex’s closed many moons ago, probably sometime in the mid to late nineties. It sat empty for a short while, and then a shiny, bright new sign went up that said “Pattaya”.
I got really excited. It’s my personal belief that while Santa Barbara has the potential for some cool restaurants, most of them are lacking, and those that don’t fall flat in the flavor category really try to take your dignity in the price category. One can imagine, then, how the arrival of a new establishment so close to my abode in a low-rent neighborhood piqued my fancy.
But it never opened. There it sat, that shiny new “Pattaya” sign atop the impenetrable building, and it teased me. That sign bore into my soul and whispered sweet promises in my ear every time I drove past it, telling me that something amazing and delicious sat inside its dirty white walls, but that I would never experience it because I wasn’t good enough; I had not yet earned my place.
So I waited, like most of Goleta, waited for three long years. Many explanations for the mysterious and forever closed restaurant were floated. I was convinced it was a front for the Mob.
And then, one day, on an excursion to find nom noms, Kneil and I drove past AND IT WAS OPEN. A great big vinyl “Grand Opening” sign hung floppily above its glorious open doors. It was all I could do to not slam on my brakes in the middle of Hollister traffic and swerve toward the lights glowing from inside the restaurant.
We parked. We went in. IT WAS BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED. One of my most favorite things in the world is variety; many of you who have eaten with me may have seen me order 2-3 peoples’ worth of food just because I want to try a little bit of everything. Pattaya offered variety. It was both a Thai restaurant and a sports bar. O.M.G.
Kneil and I ordered some appetizers and I ordered a salmon burger. Although we had to ask the waitress for utensils, my salmon burger was tasty; the buffalo chicken strips Kneil ordered were, well, the spiciest things on Earth. It was as if God himself had slathered the chicken strips in molten lava. I was so pleased. The food, although not the most delicious I had ever had, was ample, unique, and appetizing. I proclaimed that this was to be my new favorite restaurant. We took our leftovers home and shared them with Dan. Dan fell in love with the flaming chicken and tried immediately to order some. Luckily I collect restaurant menus and had brought one home with me. They claimed to serve food until 1am. We felt that at 10pm, Dan had a good chance at acquiring some food.
Dan called and the phone rang for ages. Finally someone picked up; then promptly hung up. Dan was crushed. After a few minutes of Dan’s pouting, Terri decided to give it a try. Terri’s call was answered but she was informed that the kitchen was closed. The man on the phone kindly offered to give her free chicken next time she came in if she just mentioned the conversation they had. Yay, free food.
Terri went to Pattaya at a later date and tried to cash in on the free buffalo chicken strips. They brought out a giant plate of plain chicken strips. She brought this mistake to the attention of the waitstaff, who apologized, then brought out another identical plate of plain chicken strips. Defeated by the ineptitude of the restaurant staff, Terri decided to cut her losses and just settle with the pound of fried chicken that had been presented to her. She brought them home to Dan, who ate ALL THE CHICKEN and then had stomach problems. Dan, in his infinite wisdom, decided to remedy his over-stuffed stomach by ingesting approximately half a gallon of soy milk. Go Dan.
Since the grand opening a couple months ago, my friends and I have probably patronized this establishment a handful of times. With each visit, the food and the service got progressively worse. There was one night when I ordered Panang Chicken Curry and received what could only be described as cream of chicken soup – it was as if they had forgotten to add the curry. Terri and Dan had made a third attempt to get buffalo chicken strips only to receive chicken strips with a side of buffalo sauce. Not once have I eaten there that I’ve gotten a napkin and utensils without having to either ask for them or get up and steal them myself.
And then the night of the garbage chicken happened.
One fateful night about two weeks ago, Kneil, Dan, and I went to Pattaya for dinner. Kneil ordered Pad Thai, Dan made yet another attempt at buffalo chicken strips, and I ordered chicken strips and fries. First we spent several minutes trying to explain the buffalo chicken strips to the waitress. We even described in detail the chicken that we had gotten from that very establishment a month earlier. She was puzzled and claimed that there was no such item on the menu even though “buffalo chicken strips” was written on the menu. We thought we had finally conveyed to her what it was that we wanted – she scribbled something on her pad.
Before the food arrived, the lights in the restaurant dimmed from regular yellow/white to prostitution red. Extremely loud funk music began to play. A steady stream of people began to come in through the back door, most of who looked like gang members, all of whom gathered on the stage at the front of the restaurant around a laptop.
When the food arrived, Dan received what looked like Parmesan Chicken, but without red sauce. We had to ask for some spicy sauce for his chicken, and the waitress brought him a carousel of Asian sauces. So Dan ate his chicken covered in what was probably Sriracha sauce.
I looked at my plate of chicken and fries. There were five pieces of meat, two normal-colored pieces stacked on top of three severely burnt pieces. I took a bite of one of the normal looking pieces, and what I tasted could only be described as “refrigerator”. It was almost as if my mouth was a box of baking soda which had been inserted into an overstuffed college fridge that had never been cleaned and I was absorbing into my taste buds the amalgamation of odors that had been floating aimlessly inside the icy dungeon for years. I put down the chicken, drank some water, ate a few French fries, and stole some of Kneil’s Pad Thai. My mind had not quite yet processed the horror which had just occurred in my mouth. I don’t eat meat often. Maybe that’s just what meat tastes like. I picked up the chicken and took another bite.
Nope. There it was again. It was like a Frigidaire took a dump in my mouth. I dipped my chicken in some ranch dressing and bit again. This time, after the initial creamy goodness of ranch, was the awesome aftertaste of garbage. At this point Dan had finished his chicken, and I offered him a piece of mine. He ate it. And this is what he told me,
“I realize that you don’t eat a lot of chicken, so you may not know, but as someone who eats a lot of chicken, I can say that that chicken is really bad.”
Well, at least it wasn’t me.
Throughout our meal, much rearranging of the restaurant occurred. Tables and chairs were moved to create what appeared to be a dance floor. No one stood upon it, though it was safe to say the majority of the people inside the restaurant were now standing around the magical laptop on stage. It looked like some modern rendition of West Side Story was about to play out. At one point a random man came to our table and asked if we were staying for ‘the event’ and attempted to collect money, but we replied that we were simply there for dinner. He moved on to another table and successfully extracted some greenbacks from them.
When the waitress came to check on us, I informed her that the chicken tasted like garbage. Well, like the inside of a refrigerator with an aftertaste of garbage. She said she was sorry and went to get our check. Much time passed. No ‘event’ happened, though it had been half an hour since the man made an attempt to collect cover for said event. The music continued to be so loud we had to shout to converse.
Finally the waitress returned with our check. No credit was given; the garbage chicken remained on the check. If she insisted on charging us for the chicken, she should have at least had the good humor to modify our itemized check to reflect an order of “garbage chicken”. We paid and left, feeling raped in the mouth, ears, and pocketbook.
I may one day return to Fresh Start for another meal of broken glass. I will NEVER return to Pattaya for a second serving of garbage chicken.
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