Saturday mornings usually signify one mighty meal for my starving nephew: two chicken biscuits and eight Chick-n-Minis from the efficiently operated Chick-fil-A restaurant in Downtown Suffolk. Already towering at 6'1" and sporting size-13 Air Jordans, fourteen- year-old Nolan can finish the formidable feast in a matter of minutes. When an Adam Richman impersonation isn't part of the A.M. talent show, he takes more time to savor each tasty morsel and hits the proverbial food wall with a biscuit or box of Minis left untouched. In the past, I often devoured the remaining portion as either an appetizer for a later Papa John's order or as part of an existing set-up involving other chicken products. Lately, Nolan has been saving the extra items for gloomy Sundays ("Never," huh?) and groggy school days. Though I've seen a surplus of five or more biscuits stored in the refrigerator's bottom tray during Saturday night inspections, the drawer has always been emptied by Monday morning. While grabbing the iced tea pitcher earlier this week (Wednesday), I spotted something unusual in the lower compartment. Three chicken biscuits had checked into Hotel Frigidaire on the previous Saturday. Upon my room examination, they were enjoying their fifth comfortable day inside the spacious Ziploc bag. Relocating the guests to an adjacent trash bin was never an option, for I'd dealt with lingering leftovers on an extended stay plan many times before. Roughly twenty years ago, I accommodated a vacationing pot of seasoned taco meat for 7-9 straight days. Regarding present company, I had a couple introductions in mind for the upcoming social mixer.
Microwaving two biscuits for the randomly chosen time of 1:11, second-hand scents engulfed the air with an unmistakable poultry perfume. Hot to the touch, several cracks in the architecture caused scattered separation throughout the plate. While gluing the crumbly pieces back to their main mounds, a packet of Burger King Zesty sauce was poured onto the chicken offerings. Before being placed inside each biscuit, the juices from two Vlasic pickles liberally coated the meat. Ironically, the Zesty/Vlasic combination resulted in a McDonald's- esque taste. To my puzzled palate, the tandem came across like a Big Mac sans beef and the triple-layered bun. Eating pickles might seem rather peculiar at the breakfast table, but lovers of the rounded ridges should have no problem connecting with the first-meal curveball. Due to an increased firmness, the afternoon biscuit was the best one of all. The stability almost required no need for a plate, as the residual crumbs were kept to a minimum. Maybe I'd warmed the earlier biscuits on the wrong setting, because the chicken from the P.M serving seemed less soggy. Or perhaps I didn't drench the dang thing in a pint of pickle juice. Whatever the case, I hope to revisit this successful experiment in the near future.
Had I sampled the Vlasic/Zesty pairing on a proper (and fresh) Chick-fil-A sandwich, the mark would've been an "A" all the way. Final grade for the leftover biscuits: a solid "B." That "B" for breakfast is good enough for me.