Crispy Chicken
Sandwich

Team outing. Eight of us from accounting, in matching polos nobody asked for, spread across four holes at PopStroke The Colony like a slow invading army.

By the turn, I had established myself as the group's quiet threat. Two birdies. A lag putt on the fifth that crossed three breaks and stopped dead in the jaws. Kevin from payroll started calling me "the Assassin." I did not discourage this.

Then the hunger arrived, sudden and total, the way it does in the middle of a round. I marched the whole department to the patio, ordered at the bar, and accepted Kevin's challenge at the ping pong table while we waited.

It found me mid-rally. The best crispy chicken sandwich of my professional life.

Hand-breaded chicken, the crust audible from across the patio, a craggy golden shell around something juicy and steaming. A toasted brioche bun, soft and buttery-gold. Sweet heat sauce, which is exactly what it promises: sweetness first, then a slow, warm flare, like a compliment followed by a dare. And pickle chips, tart and crunchy, cutting through everything with admirable precision.

I ate it standing up beside the table, paddle still in one hand, the way generals eat on campaign.

Kevin won. On the back nine, on the very last hole, a fifteen-footer, uphill, dead center. The Assassin was undone by payroll. I had sauce on my polo, and frankly, it improved the polo.