Australia, England... same language, same sort of culture, so why sometimes are things so bloody difficult? What, when you see poussin on a Sunday roast menu otherwise written entirely in English, might you think? No, not a fish, not a Russian president, not a vegetable, not a saucy vagina, a WHOLE FUCKING CHICKEN.
I didn't know that before three this afternoon. Now I do.
Thanks to the lovely bloke at Royal Inn on the Park who sweetly reversed my order after he arrived at the table and I almost freaked out as badly as the first time I ever saw steak tartare.
Why not just call it chicken, yeah?
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