West Coast
Chicken Wrap

My sister Rosalind doesn't stop for lunch. Lunch, she says, is for people who aren't winning.

So it was a surprise when, at the turn, three strokes up and smug as a cat in a sunbeam, she marched us off the course at PopStroke The Colony and straight to the bar. Didn't break stride. Didn't look at the menu twice. "West Coast," she said, as though she were naming a destination, which, in a way, she was.

We played cornhole on the patio while we waited, and she dropped three straight bags through the hole. Then the chicken wrap landed on our table, and I was trying very hard not to look at it.

I looked at the wrap.

Crispy chicken, loud with every bite. Cool romaine. Pico de gallo, bright and fresh. Bacon, salty and assertive. Guacamole, smooth as a perfectly struck putt. And over all of it, the housemade West Coast sauce, a creamy, tangy thing with the easy confidence of a convertible on the coast highway. Rolled tight in a tomato basil wrap, rosy and fragrant. A pickle spear riding shotgun, straight as a plumb line.

She sat down. Took a bite. Closed her eyes.

Then she handed me half. Not out of kindness, I think, but because she knew a man with his mouth full can't argue about how many putts she had on the 4th.