Coming Home to The Roost
I had just finished picking all the good stuff out of my salad when my office mate burst through the door.
“Quick!” she panted. “The Roost Food Truck is right down the street. By the post office, where Tamale Spaceship usually parks!”
“No shit?” I grabbed my purse and headed toward the elevator. “Cover me — I’ll be right back!”
Bless her, she knew I’d been dying to try The Roost’s highly touted Southern-fried chicken, which they hawk from their iconic gold and green truck at tweeted hotspots all over town. The local media squawk, so far, had been promising, and I was intrigued by The Roost’s sweet, simple ”Come Home” concept. And she knew that I was a big fan of the “stick-it-to-the-Man” rebel mystique of Chicago’s plucky and over-legislated food truck operators. So she understood why I had to drop everything and run as fast as I could down the block, if only for a single piece of chicken.
And that’s all I ordered, although I was sorely tempted by the buttermilk biscuit and the peach cobbler listed on the truck’s menu board — had I not just eaten lunch, I would have indulged myself. But instead it was one piece of chicken, spicy please, and dark meat. I forked over three bucks and carefully cradled my little white box back to my office where I could properly hunch over it, growling and teeth gnashing, to devour the fragrant spiced fried chicken thigh within.
Fried chicken. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My office mate watched me eat, one eyebrow raised. “So?” she asked.
“Mmmmmmuffhrellygooth.” I said around a mouthful of perfectly seasoned yardbird. She laughed as I licked all ten of my fingers clean.
If the Roost’s aim is to bring us all a taste of home, they’ve certainly succeeded. That one simple piece of fried chicken reminded me so much of my late grandma’s homey Sunday Dinners that I suddenly craved her mashed potatoes and gravy, her green beans with bacon, her Jello salad topped with miniature marshmallows. I suddenly wanted to sit at the table in my Grandma’s kitchen again and sip Tropical Punch Kool-Aid from a McDonald’s Grimace glass, like I did when I was a kid. I wanted to watch “HeeHaw” on her old console tv and play a rousing game of Uno before my bubble bath and bedtime. I wanted her to tuck me in and tell me to sleep tight and not let the bedbugs bite.
For a moment there, I really, really wanted to go home.
