Crispy Chicken
Cobb Salad

April. Noon. The kind of spring day that makes a grown man forgive the entire winter. I was on the 6th at PopStroke Hamlin with Walter, a friend of thirty years and a man who reads a green like a tax attorney reads fine print.

His putt: uphill, onto the upper tier, a ridge running through the middle like a fault line. He crouched. He squinted. He muttered something about the grain. He left it four feet short and called it strategy.

I didn't argue. I was thinking about lunch. Specifically, the crispy chicken Cobb salad.

Hand-breaded chicken tenders, crisp and golden, laid across a bed of romaine so cold and crisp it practically snaps back at you. Around them, an orderly little parade: tomato, avocado, bacon, egg. Goat cheese, soft and tangy, crumbled like a secret you meant to keep. And honey mustard, sweet and sharp, drizzled with the confidence of a man who has never three-putted.

Walter asked for his chicken grilled. You can do that here. He likes to feel virtuous. I respected it, briefly, and then I went back to my crispy tenders.

We ate on the patio, scorecard weighted down by a fork, the breeze turning its pages to nobody's advantage.

He made the four-footer, by the way. Then he stole my last piece of bacon and called that strategy too.