I waited on line for 20 minutes yesterday for a $4 chicken sandwich.
The line stretched almost a full block, the long kind of block in Manhattan, between avenues. People walked by with mouths agape and I heard more than one of them exclaim, “For a chicken sandwich?!”
My fellow line-waiters didn’t so much mind. Many of them were on repeat visits. A woman in front of me with gray hair and big glasses assured me it was worth it. “It’s the best chicken sandwich you’ll ever have in your life.”
When we finally reached the door to the restaurant, our patience was rewarded with a gift, a little stuffed-animal cow for each of us, with letters that looked like children’s handwriting on the side.
“Eat Mor Chikin,” it said.
Line at 7pm tonight for new Chick fil-A in NYC, 11 1/2 hours before the doors open for grand opening (via @alillo) pic.twitter.com/x8jYYm4XUw
— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) October 3, 2015
I was at the newly opened NYC outpost of Chick-fil-A, the 69-year-old company that makes the very bold claim of being home to “the original chicken sandwich”. The management of the company also makes very bold claims about their religious beliefs and what type of people should be allowed to get married. Which, screw that.
The chicken sandwich, as Chick-fil-A sees it – and I’ll go along – is a piece of fried chicken, usually a breast, between two pieces of bread. (I will accept many variations on this theme, but not all of them). It’s not a burger, it’s not a club or a Rueben or a parm, it is a special and delicious thing unto itself; a thing that is having a culinary “moment” at the moment.
The current craze is steeped in southern nostalgia. It is fried chicken, after all. (Chick-Fil-A started in a suburb of Atlanta, feeding workers at a local Ford Motors assembly plant.) But in my mind, the sandwich is a classic tri-state-area deli item, a reliable Bodega order on the way to a picnic in Central Park, say.
When I was in high school, my friends and I worked summers as delivery boys for a restaurant called Danny’s Pizza & Subs. In order to save more money for beer, we took to eating just about every meal there, taking extreme advantage of the 100% employee discount Danny probably unknowingly offered his hires. But even the greasiest, acne-faced teens get sick of pizza after awhile, so we all developed our choice of go-to sandwich to get us through the long lazy days. Ted got the turkey with cranberry sauce. Murgio went for the Italian with everything on it. Mark the same, sans onions, plus hot peppers and extra vinegar.
I discovered the simple joy of the breaded chicken cutlet with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise. Crisp, clean, relatively light, the chicken sandwich was a perfect staple; I could eat one every day. I remember the way the juice from the tomato mixed with the mayo to make a less-salty sort of ketchup, how that soaked into the soft hero roll ... It’s one of the defining memories of my adolescence. As I type this now I’m transported back to my metal blue Toyota Corolla – its cracked vinyl seat cushions, spongy yellow foam sausaging out of the seems, the smell of marinara sauce coming from the metal hotbox belted into the back, back to a more innocent Ameri–
Oh, excuse me. But this is the sort of reverie that a chicken sandwich can inspire.
Chick-fil-A’s was pretty good, too. The pickles they put on there are a nice touch, tantalizing my more mature taste buds. But the thing couldn’t get past its fast-foodness. The chicken was juicy and nicely spiced, the bun soft, just fine. But the overpowering taste was that distinctly mass-produced mystery flavor (is it just old grease, perhaps?); that characteristic that makes all McDonald’s food taste kinda the same; burgers to chicken to Filet-O-Fish.
This is not a total deal-breaker. I enjoy a stop at McDonald’s on a road trip as much as the next guy. I could imagine being fully satisfied by a Chick-fil-A chicken sandwich in such a situation, the appropriate .38 Special song booming from the speakers. I’m game. But only once or twice a year, max.
Rating for chicken sandwiches
Danny’s (now “Polumbo’s,” and I cannot vouch for the quality): 4 stars
Chick-fil-A: 3 stars
Rating system: from best to worst
5 stars: Gay marriage rights
4 stars: Sunny day, 70 degrees, October
3 stars: .38 Special
2 stars: Red wine spilled on shirt at party
1 star: Math homework
