In high school I worked in a string of fast food and fast casual restaurants, often on split shifts. A split shift leaves you with a few hours in the middle of the day, not enough time to go home, and not much money to spend. I spent most of those hours at the mall, in a food court that sat next to a big arcade.
Most of the food court was chains. One counter wasn’t. It was a one-off shop that sold chicken burgers, and if it sold anything else, I don’t remember it. I only ever ordered the chicken burger.
The chicken had a dark, crispy crust, fairly thick, with the crunch of a medium-grind cornmeal. I suspect it was cut with some flour, since it held together better than straight cornmeal would. It wasn’t spicy, so the colour probably came from well-used oil or a longer fry, though there may have been a little sweet paprika in the mix. It wasn’t the pale, flaky breading the chains used. It was closer to something you’d fry at home, if you fried things at home, which we didn’t. Inside was a real piece of chicken, breast I assume, reasonably tender and not pressed into a perfect patty. You could tell it had been a piece of meat that morning.
The bun was a kaiser, I think. I remember a chew to it, and a lightness: a crusty outside, chewy, but airy inside. The toppings were quiet. I think it was the usual for the era: mayo, lettuce, maybe a slice of tomato. Nothing competed with the crust, which was the whole point. It was simple, crunchy, and cheap, and it was exactly what I needed between shifts. I kept eating there into college.
I met the owner before I knew he had a restaurant. He came into one of the places I worked and helped himself to a stack of napkins on the way out, and later more napkins. When I eventually found his counter and saw the napkins sitting there, it clicked. He wasn’t a thief so much as a guy trying to save a few dollars a week any way he could. A business that has to pilfer napkins is not a business with much margin.
He was kind. He was a single dad, and that counter was how he fed his family. On slow afternoons I’d hang out and chat with him while I ate. I don’t remember his name, which bothers me more than I’d like to admit, but I remember the way he talked about the shop. It was his whole livelihood, and it was always one bad month away from not being enough.
He’s one of the reasons I’ve never really wanted to open a restaurant. I’ve worked enough kitchens to know the hours, and he showed me the rest of it: the arithmetic of a small menu, a rented counter, and a family at home. (The one exception is a food truck idea I had once, which is a story for another day.)
I still crave that sandwich. The trouble is that my memory of it is fading, and the details I’d need to rebuild it are the ones going first. I know the crust was dark and thick and tasted of corn. I know the chicken was real, and the bun had some chew. I’m less sure about the rest.
So I’m trying to rebuild it, one test at a time. The cornmeal-to-flour ratio, paprika or no paprika, how long it stays in the oil. Taste is a strange kind of memory: I can’t describe that sandwich well, but I’m fairly sure I’ll know it when I bite into it. Any version I make now will probably be better than his, and also not quite right, until one day it is.