Depth of Subject: Visible Poetry within the Rooster Sandwich Battle



Simply over two weeks in the past, on August 12, Popeyes—the long-lasting fast-food chain identified for his or her savory tackle Southern delicacies—debuted its personal model of a fried rooster sandwich. The general public announcement, made through Twitter within the reliably unfunny brand-speak many corporations use on social media now, detailed its ingredients: a crispy buttermilk-battered rooster breast, topped with mayonnaise and pickles, and served on a brioche bun (as later publicized, there was a spicy choice additionally obtainable). The tweet despatched the nation right into a match of delirium. Relations, buddies, colleagues, folks whom I didn’t even know however overheard speaking on sweaty Brooklyn streets—everybody, it appeared, was wanting to luxuriate within the bliss that was Popeyes’ newest creation.

The fried rooster sandwich was simply the newest in an escalating development amongst fast-casual purveyors: Boutique eating places together with Danny Chang’s Fuku and fast-food chains corresponding to Shake Shack are cornering the market with their very own spins on the golden hen. In its totality, fried rooster is an odd compression of American historical past, capitalist self-interest, communal id, pop artwork, and meals nirvana. It occupies rarefied air amongst different basic American fare. Apple pie, meatloaf, Caesar salad, the hamburger—all a bit overrated in my estimation.

In fact, fast-food behemoths—significantly KFC, Wendy’s, and Chick-fil-A—have lengthy served fried rooster sandwiches as go-to menu objects, every with signature and secret elements. Chick-fil-A, which maybe has probably the most collectively beloved iteration (regardless of the corporate’s earlier donations to anti-LGBTQ causes; or perhaps due to it—we reside in unusually regressive instances), had probably the most franchise IP to lose. Very predictably, they responded, cresting on the tide of publicity that Popeyes was driving, with a tweet. Adopted by Wendy’s after which by Shake Shack. Id politics is a messy enterprise in America. This was by no means going to finish properly.

Like a justifiable share of American tales, this one ends in tragedy. After two weeks of individuals scrambling to Popeyes—unimaginably lengthy traces snaked round corners and stalled drive-thrus; one North Carolina teen even went about registering folks to vote as they waited to order meals, of which President Obama permitted—the chain introduced it had run out of sandwiches. “You ate ’em all,” a video introduced. Once I ventured into my native Popeyes late final week, in Mattress-Stuy, I used to be greeted by a message, inscribed in black sharpie, on a cardboard signal: “We’re all out of rooster sandwiches.”

Photographer Pat Greenhouse’s picture outdoors a Popeyes on Brookline Avenue, close to Fenway Park in Boston, seizes a comparable sentiment. The photograph feels eerily unhappy in its seize: ghosts hang-out the web page. The lone determine within the picture appears to be trapped in some bizarro universe the place speak of the Popeyes fried rooster sandwich is pure mythology. The road is bare of motion. Greenhouse’s shot, it’s a picture that challenges chronology. It appears to come back to us, gazing at its flat, plain colours, from a distant time despite the fact that it’s right here with us now. The paradox of the photograph—maybe of all notable pictures; photographs that stir and transfix us—is that it needs to offer us what we yearn for, despite the fact that it will probably’t.


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