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POPSTROKE

BarTenders Eatery

West Coast
Chicken Wrap

Served with a pickle spear

West Coast Chicken Wrap, served with a pickle spear

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 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.

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