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A little over two weeks ago, on August 12, Popeyes, the iconic fast food chain known for its tasty Southern cuisine, launched its own version of a fried chicken sandwich. The public announcement, made via Twitter, in the reliable brand language that many companies currently use on social media, detailed ingredients: A crisp chicken breast stuffed with buttermilk, topped with mayonnaise and pickles, and served on a brioche bun (as it was later announced, a spicy option was also available). The tweet sent the nation into a delusional crisis. Family members, friends, co-workers, people I did not even know but heard in the sweaty streets of Brooklyn – everyone, it seemed, seemed eager to savor the happiness that was the last creation of Popeyes.
The fried chicken sandwich was only the latest in a rising trend among fast-casual suppliers: restaurants such as Danny Chang's Fuku and fast food chains such as Shake Shack monopolize the market of their own tricks on the golden bird. In its entirety, fried chicken is a strange compression of American history, capitalist interest, community identity, pop art and nirvana food. It occupies a rarefied air among other classic American dishes. Apple pie, meatloaf, Caesar salad, hamburger, all this is a little overrated in my opinion.
Of course, fast food behemoths, especially KFC, Wendy's and Chick-fil-A, have long served fried chicken sandwiches as takeaways, each containing distinctive and secret ingredients. Chick-fil-A, which may have the most collectively popular iteration (despite previous donations from society to anti-LGBTQ causes, or perhaps because of this – we are living in strangely regressive times) – had the most franchise rights to lose. In a very predictable way, they reacted, registering on the wave of advertising that Popeyes surpasses, with a tweet. Followed by Wendy's so what by Shake Shack. Identity politics is a messy business in America. It was never going to end well.
Like a good deal of American stories, this one ends with a tragedy. At the end of two weeks, people rushed to Popeyes – incredibly long lines went through turns and blocked the driving service; a teenager from North Carolina even enrolled voters to wait for food President Obama approved – the channel announced that she was short of sandwiches. "You've all eaten them," said a video. When I ventured into my local Popeyes at the end of last week, at Bed-Stuy, I was greeted by a message, engraved in black, on a cardboard sign: "We are all short of chicken sandwiches.
The image of photographer Pat Greenhouse outside a Popeyes on Brookline Avenue, near Fenway Park in Boston, captures a comparable sentiment. The photo is strangely sad in its capture: ghosts haunt the page. The unique figure of the image seems to be trapped in a bizarre universe where talking about the Popeyes Fried Chicken Sandwich is pure mythology. The street is bare of movement. Looking at Greenhouse's plan, it's an image that challenges the timeline. It seems to come to us, looking at its flat and plain colors, from a long time ago, even if it's here with us now. The paradox of the photo – perhaps of all the notable photographs; images that move us and pierce us – it's that she wants to give us what we want, even if it's impossible.
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