OCT 3, 2024 | OPINION | By Asa Gartrell
What makes up 70% of the world’s birds by mass and nestles down neatly on a brioche cushion? That’s right, today we’re talkin’ chicken. From the town that brought you South Park and the Donkey Racing World Championships comes a sandwich you’ll be sure to remember: Otto’s Colossal Cajun Chicken.
I purloined this poulterer package under bellowing winter skies, gusts of snow ushering me into the modest digs of Otto’s brick-and-mortar. After consulting the 26-entree litany of viable chow, I knew I’d have to drop at least 16 bones. I hoped I was in for a heavenly slice of Bayou brilliance — or some rocky mountain sando slopper’s best shot. A wink from Mr. Season, the lead patty maker, confirmed my optimistic suspicions.
And thus I let the Gallus gallus domesticus dagwood pack its tender punch. Mmm! The burger’s gallery of side support — cheddy, letty, sweet musty, ‘mateys and aioli — let the crispy bird sing like it was six minutes to sunrise. The sandwich bravely surrendered its savory juices to the tune of a classic pickle quartet. However, I found the bun inert and recalcitrant, resisting the inevitable descent to my chamber. I think this john is best seasoned with the trials and chafes of a good day on the planks.
On the whole, I’d liken this little ditty to a Scottish brogue: a pleasant sensory refuge in a cold white wasteland. No better way to weather the blizzard than with a chicken twixt your lips, preparing for a postprandial shuffle through the inclement flake. My best to you and yours.