Crispy As Fuck
On the first Sunday of November, I woke up and took my happy ass to Popeye’s to finally get that elusive chicken sandwich that had caused the country to abandon all common decency.
I thought I was hot shit using the Popeye’s app to order ahead but half the employees were late, which meant the lobby wasn’t even open yet; only the backed-up drive-thru with 10 other cars already waiting. I don’t know why the line was moving so slow when we all knew exactly why we were there that morning and the employees probably knew there wouldn’t be much variation happening with the orders.
It was chicken sandwich day. Those things should have been catapulted out the drive-thru window at breakneck speed.
Forty-five minutes of waiting later I had not one but two chicken sandwiches, one was spicy and the other was regular—had to try both of them to make sure I was getting a well-rounded chicken experience—safely buckled in the passenger seat.
I’ve never identified more with the Buffalo Bill meme from Silence of the Lambs than I did during that drive to an isolated parking lot.
The minute that first bite was in my mouth, I forgot about every other chicken sandwich I’ve ever had in my life. Chick-fil-A who? Trust me when I say I was transported to someone’s tiny kitchen in old school Five Points. There was love in that breading, 47 years of spice appreciation, and deep-rooted respect for fried poultry on brioche buns.
I’m not advocating for violence on behalf of the sandwich, but I will say that I understand the sudden need to impale someone trying to start shenanigans while waiting in line at a Popeye’s. And to think, if we hadn’t been required to go through the drive-thru that day, that knife-wielding perpetrator could have been me.