A Valentine For Chick-Fil-A (And A Taste-Off)
I'd never had Chick-fil-A sandwich until four years ago. It was while getting a pedicure in a Richmond mall, where I'll be should I ever need to go in the Witness Protection Program, since it's among the most unlikely places you'd find me in this life.
I was visiting my friend Robin with Meg, my DC buddy who went to University of Richmond with her. As we sat ducks in a row in our chairs, their conversation spiraled into a discussion of guilty pleasure foods and landed on the classic sandwich that inspires mad passions.
"Melissa," they asked. "Why are you quiet?" I confessed I'd never been to Chick-fil-A before. Jesus chicken hadn't reach the landscape of New York, Massachusetts, or New Jersey where I'd lived most of my life.
My friend Robin was horrified. She bolted from her chair, grabbed a pair of paper flip flops, and proceeded semi-barefoot through the mall -- mid-pedicure-- so she could buy me a sandwich immediately.
"This is perfection," she said, as she brought it to me and unwrapped it from its foil bag, much like Charlie ripped open his Wonka Bar for the golden ticket. "You will become addicted."
I may be one of the few who have eaten Chick-fil-A in a nail salon. There's plenty wrong with that, I can assure you.
I remember less about the sandwich -- aside from the salty, savory chicken and the sweetness of pickles-- than the expression on my friends' faces, eyes glued to my mouth as they attempted to indoctrinate me. It was pretty good. They looked a little crestfallen. I felt bad that I wasn't going to count myself among the Northern converts to sprint through airports to grab one between flights, doubly so after stories like this.
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