A Southern-Fried Sleepover at New York’s First Chick-Fil-A, Or How I Won a Year’s Supply of Chicken

Winning enough Chick-fil-A® chicken sandwiches, iced tea, and medium Classic Sides to fill a man’s grave is easy. All you have to do is line up on the sidewalk for three hours with 300 people while the lead-colored sky bleeds into black night; while stinging rain, flung down from heaven by an angry God and then up, into your face, by 32 mph wind gusts, chills you to the bone; while a bleak chorus of freezing cops, frazzled event managers, and other various uniformed persons moan in rounds the following words: This is not the official line. This line is unofficial. This is not the official line. Then you must pray that that same cruel and arbitrary God turns His back on two-thirds of your wretched companions. If He does, and you manage to survive an additional 12 hours inside or near the Chick-Fil-A, then you have won the chicken.

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