El Pollo Loco

The year was 1989. I don't remember her name. I used to have a photo. A blond, she used to hang around two college buddies of mine who were amateur bodybuilders. She may have dated one or both, but I don't remember that either.

Somehow I overcame my usual shyness to ask her out on a date. Back then, we asked our agents to contact the other's agent via phone or in-person. Just kidding...no one had agents. Anyway, we agreed to go to a chain restaurant nearby the school. Unfortunately, I don't remember the name of the restaurant either, but I recall the servers wearing "flair."

She looked nice and seemed pleasant when I picked her up. We enjoyed a friendly conversation over iced tea (or maybe sodas). Everything progressed as a first date should. The waiter came and took our order. I'll have the vegetarian pasta, she said, with decisiveness and grace.

"I'll have the Monterrey Chicken with baked potato," I said when it was my turn. The waiter thanked us, snapped shut his order pad, and turned toward the kitchen. I looked back at my date as she moved at an equally fast pace toward the exit.

I ate my chicken and asked for a takeaway box for the pasta.

Perplexed, I told the story to one of the bodybuilders. "Ha, didn't we tell you? She's the local PETA chapter president!" I would have called to apologize...but I was chicken.