In Spring of 2017, I ate dinner at Del Frisco’s, a lavish and glitzy steakhouse located on the fifty-second story of The Prudential Center in Boston. Del Frisco’s menu features everything you would imagine from a place frequented by the East Coast aristocracy, while the stone and metal interior is so ornately accented by crystal chandeliers and reclaimed wood you begin to understand why the one-percent is so keen on holding onto this lifestyle. Between the forty-five day dry-aged steak that melted in my mouth, the handcrafted cocktails that flowed with more life and vitality than The Euphradis, and my date’s seven course meal (each paired with its own top-shelf wine), the check came out to roughly what I pay per month in rent. This menu should be printed, un-altered, and distributed as a pamphlet to spark the proletariat uprising.
After I sucked the last morsels of meat off the t-bone, I leaned back in my chair, my belly full of a cow that probably had a higher quality of life than myself, and my eyes drifted out the window, soaking in a Boston Harbor being swaddled in the twilight of a setting Sun. After a moment, my gaze came back across the table, and I stared into the eyes of the woman I loved, hoping time would stand still and we would never leave.
It has been years since that steak and relationship both turned to shit and were flushed down the toilet (one metaphorically, and the other less so), but I still think back on that time and place, fondly and salivating. It was a level of culinary beauty I had not known possible.
I don’t tell you that story to brag about the meal, or the fact that brushed shoulders with people whose necks would fit perfectly in a guillotine. I tell you this because I need to you to understand the gravity of what I am about to say, and the frame of reference it is coming from:
The new chicken sandwich from Popeyes is the best thing I have ever fucking eaten.
That steak from Del Frisco’s is dog food in comparison. The apple of Eden? Slop meant for swine.
The headline circulating the internet lately has been “Popeyes‘ fried chicken sandwich is better than Chick-fil-A’s”, and that headline is, quite frankly, bullshit. Not to say that it isn’t true, but it fails to capture the tantric mouth orgasm that every god damn bite of this sandwich creates. You’d also be correct in saying “Ulysses is a better book than Fifty Shades of Grey.” but doing so might be selling James Joyce’s magnum opus a bit fucking short, don’t you think? To compare this new sandwich from Popeyes to another is to spit in the face of God.
To be fair, there are some similarities that this new sandwich shares with the dumpster food being churned out by the homophobes over at Chic-fil-A. Both feature fried chicken breasts and pickles on a brioche bun, but the crossover in essence is metaphysical at best. I do suppose, that from a certain point of view, I can understand some cretin, with the taste pallet of an uncultured raccoon, feeling the need to compare the two.
The heart and soul of the Popeyes sandwich, and what Chic-fil-go-fuck-yourself misses the mark on, is a hunk of fried chicken, so thick and hefty you could bludgeon a small child with it. Not that you would want to of course, because that would mean you just wasted the best sandwich created in this life or the next.
Popeyes’ breasts are so juicy and succulent that you should have to delete your browser history after reading this article. If this is where the chicken whisperers at Popeyes stopped, they could rest their head well every night knowing they made a top-tier sandwich at an affordable price. Did they stop? Did Eisenhower stop when his troops took Normandy? Did Picasso hang up his brush after painting the first goofy looking face in Guernica? No. They knew there was more to be done.
After slapping this thick-ass chicken titty on their bun, these goddamn renaissance men slather it in a Cajun spread so rich and creamy you would swear it was formed in the foaming shores of Shangri-La. You want to compare this nectar of the Gods to what? Chick-fil-A’s spicy breading? Fuck you.
This isn’t even a review of the sandwich. It’s a hymn. A Psalm of praise that should be sung in houses of worship until the end times. And when the four horsemen ride, and the fire rains, and the seven-headed beast rises from the sea, we shall fear not, for we have already seen heaven, and it comes served on a buttery brioche bun.