The "surprise" ending of the New Yorker story Road Kill

Let's face it, the story Road Kill in current New Yorker, by possibly Indian-Sri Lankan author?, Romesh Gunesekera (?), is in the magazine primarily because of its exoticism - story of a hired driver taking a wealthy couple through the lately war-ravaged countryside of Sri Lanka and stopping overnight at a rather dismal and somewhat frightening hotel, where he (the driver, also narrator) engages in some desultory conversation with the hotel manager, a woman whose life has obviously been formed by the Sri Lankan rebal wars - she bears some scars, visible and not visible, and is decidedly brusque and almost wooden in her foundering attempts to be hospitable. Not a lot happens, and the narrative voice is not especially distinct. Would this story have been published in NYer had it take place in, say, Nevada? Well, maybe. But first of all - part of why we read fiction is to understand other times, places, and consciousness, and I do admire the NYer for broadening the scope of fiction accessible and known to the wide (I hope) audience of at least semi-serious American readers. Second, the story might well work in another setting, transposed - there's an element of creepiness and darkness that depends only in part on the background of civil war and disruption. Which comes down to: What does the narrator discover in the hotel? I don't want to "give it away," but I wonder how others interpret this story: given the title, and all the references to horrible food, and the statement at the end that there are some things the narrator does not want to know, aren't we meant to understand that the hotel is serving not chicken but the scampering rats, such as the one the manager kills with a well-tossed (though had to believe) bottle?