When Chris is out and about all over town, he'll sometimes call and say "I'm partaking of Gourmet Dining." And I know that he and whatever paperback he tucked in his pocket are sitting at Chick-fil-A, whiling away a little time before he has to hit the road again for another service call. We had it seldom before we moved here, as we've almost always lived in small towns during our childhoods. Now, we've become quite spoiled to having ready access to the tastes and pickles and soft buns and steamy, brown-crusted chicken, and if that's all you go for---you're missing something, folks.
The SAUCE, the SAUCE! It comes in a teensy rectangular packet, and you have to ask for it at the counter---they're dicey about putting out containers of condiments. Just say, "Two sauce, please" with grammar-be-darned ease, and snag a little pack of mayo while you're there.
Leave that tempting sandwich in its warm foil sauna and open the sauce, tearing the little lipped lid all the way off. Tear the corner off the mayo, and set both of these important accessories on one of the little folded napkins at your table. THEN, and only then, do you lay the softly steaming packet in front of you.
Gently split the sandwich wrapper, tearing it just so at the bottom, so as to make an irregularly-shaped nice silvery plate. Now you're cooking. Lift the top bun off the chicken and rearrange the pickle, if you choose, and IF you were lucky enough to receive more than two, it's like a double-yolk egg. Finding three slices means GOOD LUCK all day.
Then, pick up that little box of sauce and gently dribble a teensy bit onto the inside of the top bun. Squeeze a bit of the mayo in a pretty little pattern amongst the red bloblets, and put the top back on the sandwich. You can even pick up one of those crispy wafflefries and spread the sauces neatly if you're dainty.
NOW: squeeze the rest of the mayo into the remaining sauce in the little cup. Break a waffle and stir the red and white til it's a lovely browny pink. Crunch down that baptized bit of crisp potato, close your eyes, and give thanks for the six days a week the doors are open.
Eat sandwich. Dip fries at will. Go to counter for more sauce and mayo---you're hooked.
And if you've got the room left, they make the best-bar-none milkshakes in town.