the chicken sandwich secret

and a pair of nice buns

Get the chicken sandwich.

That was always the answer.

For about a decade waiting tables every joint I’d work at would have a chicken sandwich on the menue.

They were the biggest seller. On a lunch rush there would easily be four or five chicken sandwiches in the window at any given time.

Served with fries or salad, you could get one to a table in under sixty seconds.

When customers were indecisive, I’d become instructive:

Get the chicken sandwich.

I’d lie and tell them it was great.

Or I’d just tell them all of the details of the herbs and apple cider poney piss vinaigrette.

But really?

I was not looking after the customer.

I was taking care of the table.

The more chicken sandwiches that I could get to them, the few opportunities for things to go sideways.

This was extra important on a busy sudden lunch rush.

Because at the heart of things you want them paying attention to each other, not you.

And if they do notice you?

Let it be because you’ve got a damn nice butt from riding your bike so much, not because of the chicken sandwich.