![]() The sides, beverages and sweets are equal parts strange and exciting. Beyond just chicken sandwiches, of which they sell eight versions, there’s a list of five different salads, each mouth-watering and creative. The only thing linking the menu’s bizarre sections and seemingly random offshoots is a neck-bearded, beanie-wearing caricature of Colorado, like that guy at the dispensary shoving some strawberry, vanilla, monkey hybrid strain down your throat talking about the “fifth dimension” when you really just came for something with enough THC to knock you on your ass and put you to bed.Īnyway, there’s something lovable about this menu, even if its idiosyncrasies recall some irritating images. The menu is random and haphazard for what seems like just a hipster-oriented chicken shack. ![]() This company is dedicated to Colorado and should be properly highlighted and emulated as a rare case of corporate benevolence.ĭespite all the things that make birdcall commendable, there is an unavoidable underbelly of mediocrity. In response to COVID-19, birdcall has donated over 15,000 meals to Denver hospital workers and, in their project “Birdcall Lockdown” they have sponsored over a dozen livestream concerts showcasing local, Colorado artists. They created 100% charitable t-shirts to fund wildlife rehabilitation after the rampant 2020 brush fires. They claim to be zero waste and the company donates 1% of all sales to nonprofits operating around their locations. They’ve got vegan, gluten-free, and vegetarian iterations of the classic sandwich that actually don’t look half bad.īetter yet, birdcall is socially active. The chicken is “all-natural,” and the buns are fresh from Aspen Baking Co. The shame of this pathetic poultry, beyond my personal dissatisfaction, is that this is a brand you really want to like. It lacked the well toasted barrier I wished for - essential for preventing saturation - but tasted perfectly decent. The bun, on the other hand, delivered, though only by humble standards. This wasn’t the chicken I was promised, and my dreams died in a rushed, shallow grave. It was like a dear family member just had a heart-attack, and I had to get my eulogy ready. I wanted to curse, scream then break down crying. There was nothing airy, nothing light, and not a crunch to be heard from the first bite. The batter was caked-on, seemingly applied like cement or the first coating of paint on a bleak wall. Not only was the chicken flaccid and almost pathetic, as opposed to crispy, it was untossed in any sauce.Īctually, the Nashville hot sauce was completely missing, and it seems I paid the extra dollar for the expectation of sauce and not the sauce itself. My chicken sandwich, the Nashville Hot - “crispy chicken tossed in Nashville hot or ‘extra hot’ sauce, Tru dill pickle chips,” according to the menu - was disappointing on all fronts. Could the account simply be a bunch of college-student grifters, whoring themselves out to local restaurants for nothing more than a free meal, free of any loyalty to the eating community or the value of a decent meal? Maybe, on the other hand, it just wasn’t my day? The Instagram posts and subsequent fantasies were as empty and plastic as the infomercials of my youth and, frankly, made me question the journalistic integrity of CO Springs Eats at large. Had I finally heard of a chicken shop worth my loyalty? No, I hadn’t. No more shopping around, no more drive-thru hopping, no more tired explorations of tired menus. I was a road-weary man, ready to settle down with one chicken sandwich for good. Posts of saucy and crisp chicken, beautiful shakes and airy, well-toasted buns filled my head with restless fantasies and ideals. While it’s impossible to ever declare a victor in the ongoing chicken wars, unfortunately, birdcall is a sure loser.įor weeks now, leading up the grand Colorado Springs opening on March 22, local foodie Instagram had been jamming birdcall-related content down our throats, in an onslaught of delicious images. Competition is fierce, and birdcall, a regional chain specializing almost exclusively on humanely sourced, Colorado chicken sandwiches, is right in the middle of that competition. There’s a certain energy around it that feels like a political uprising.Ī trip to get a chicken sandwich is a revolutionary march, flipping the yoke of the hamburger and reclaiming a sense of long-lost dignity in the fast-food realm. The fast-food chicken sandwich has taken over. The “chicken wars” are well underway, and while I hate the term itself - due to the mind-numbing ad campaign of Wendy’s - it’s impossible to deny this cultural phenomenon. Dining in or taking out, I’ll be hungry, and I’ll write about it. I’ll ramble around the Springs and find which restaurants are worth the risk and which aren’t. In the face of a tasteless fatigue, it’s time to push back. Restaurants are being choked off by an indefinite pandemic, and palates across the country are growing bored and restless.
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