Wednesday -- Jesus ate my TastyKakes: In retrospect, I had my first inkling of the coming revolt this past summer, while stuffing my face with fat hoagies (which will be the second American mother sandwich in the new pantheon) at Famous Philly ("A Tale of Two Phillies," August 7). I liked Famous for its unswerving loyalty to the Philly sam'mich ideal (even though the cheesesteaks were heavy on the onions), for the snaps of the Rocky Balboa statue and Pat's King of Steaks on the wall, but I was distressed that it didn't carry TastyKakes -- which some ex-pat East Coast types need like the rest of us need black coffee and oxygen just to get through the day.
But then I heard that Famous Philly had taken my lament to heart and started stocking the Krimpets, Kandy Kakes and fruit pies that make up the TastyKakes line. So Wednesday afternoon, I zipped through crosstown traffic to Monaco Boulevard, and from a distance, I could see the brand-new "NOW SERVING TASTYKAKES" signs hanging in the window. I could taste that lemon pie before I'd even parked the car. But rather than blow my cover, I walked in calmly, ordered a ham-and-provolone hoagie, lots of oil, easy on the veggies, and tried to act surprised when I saw the small TastyKakes display (and the twelve different signs advertising it) on the counter beside the register.
Location Info
Related Content
More About
I also tried not to act surprised when I saw Jesus standing on line in front of me. But there he was, tall and thin, with long hair, a ratty goatee and that look of emaciated suffering he always seems to have. He wasn't wearing a robe (a rather nice leather jacket, actually) or sporting the straight-up Jerusalem kicks (just an old pair of Nikes), but I'm telling you, this was the guy.
And he'd taken the last lemon pie.
What Would Jesus Eat? TastyKakes, apparently. My TastyKakes. I wanted to jump him right there, take a couple pokes, grab the pie and run, but I figured, hey, if this guy really is the big J.C., then he should be able to make more lemon pies just appear, right?
Wrong. But he sure made the one he had disappear awful quick.
So I bought Jelly Krimpets instead, because I thought that was the breed of TastyKake that Laura liked. Wrong again.
Thursday -- have pity for the Chickenman: On November 13, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animalshad scheduled a protest in front of the KFCat 2046 South Colorado Boulevard. Their point? KFC and its parent company, Yum! Brands, does nasty things to chickens. Employing their usual dignified tactics, the PETA folks had decided to have a guy in a giant chicken suit crawl across the road in front of KFC and hand out leaflets to the crowds.
Now, I thought all this nonsense was over a few months back, when KFC caved to PETA's protests by agreeing to remove some allegedly "significant misrepresentations" of its chicken-handling procedures from the KFC Web site, and by no longer allowing customer-service representatives to call the people from PETA big-ass hippie liars. But apparently I was wrong. This kind of stuff will never be over until PETA either wins its own revolution against the food chain, or its members all get bored and go home.
Either way, I wasn't about to miss the fun. My plan was to go to the KFC in question and buy chicken for the protesters. It was supposed to be a cold day, and they'd be working so hard, standing there and holding up signs, that maybe they'd get hungry and I could tempt them with a big bucket of Extra Crispy and a vat of gravy. And then, when they recoiled in horror from my Big Bucket of Death, I would insist that cruelty makes the chicken taste better. That's why KFC fried chicken is so darn addictive. Well, that and the heroin.
When I got to KFC, though, I saw just seven sorry protesters. Yes, one of them was wearing a chicken suit, but it was just some cheap, costume-shop rental, and he wasn't really doing anything except bobbing back and forth every time a gust of wind caught his big, giant head. The rest of the protesters were standing there politely with their signs, not bothering anyone, and I just couldn't bring myself to taunt them with hot, crispy chicken, because you know what? They were only trying to do the same thing I'm trying to do: reform the way Americans eat. They have their own revolution going, and although I may violently disagree with nearly every tenet of their beliefs, we do agree on one thing: KFC chicken is gross.
So I hefted my bucket of Extra Crispy and took off, delivering hot fried chicken to every homeless person I could find. For thirty minutes or so, I was the chicken fairy, and while everyone I bestowed with a piece said "God bless you," not a one had an opinion on KFC's poultry-farming practices.
Sure, I could've been passing out lobes of foie gras or -- better yet -- grilled-cheese sandwiches. But KFC chicken was what I had, so KFC chicken is what I gave. And that got me thinking that we should all be thankful that we even have the luxury of debating the meaning of American cuisine. Will it be grilled cheese or pain et fromage? Vegetarian or non? Fast food or fast casual? Krimpets or lemon pies? There is room in my rebellion for many voices, and if push comes to shove, we've even got space for a guy in a chicken suit.
