So after hearing all the Dino's lore, I had visions of a chicken shrine dancing through my head on the ride over. I pictured a hole in the wall with one dude leaning from a rusty, cracked window ledge, flinging entire chickens like frisbees at loyal devotees anxiously awaiting their bouquet-toss moment. I thought I'd feel like the chosen one when my order was finally up, awarded with a small fortune in french fries so amazing, they might as well be diamond-studded. My imagination, of course, got the best of me. Every time I think I know better than to let Los Angeles legend get my hopes up, another Casa Bianca, Pink's, or In-N-Out comes along to smash my dreams.
To all the Dino's converts out there, please don't get the wrong idea. I do think your precious chicken & fry combo is a fantastic deal and really quite tasty. My let-down stems not from lackluster flavor, but from the fact that people talk about this place like it is where chicken begins and ends. At the end of the day, it's a burger joint that just happens to make a brilliant concoction of Tabasco, citrus juices, and whatever other secrets Dino has stashed in his war-torn apron.
There is something to be said for this sauce, though. Forget Big Macs—this stuff is special. It would have to be, to make me not only enjoy soggy fries, but wolf them down like I hadn't seen food for days. A $5.50 order comes out in a large styrofoam box, the bottom layer a thatch of fries soaked by juice from the half-chicken nestled on top. The chicken looks tandoori-style, with skin the pinkish-orange of a desert sunset. I spent the better part of my time at Dino's trying to decide what was in the sauce. I saw chili flakes, and there was a faint hint of citrus. It wasn't traditionally spicy, yet my nose was running like crazy. Overall, it just tasted red.For your Lincoln-and-change, this order also comes with a few warm corn tortillas and some really basic coleslaw. I doubt there was anything more than mayo and cabbage in it, but it was a perfectly cool partner to the chicken's heat and great for dipping those saucy fries. Apparently one must also order the root beer here, another subject of hype that I didn't quite understand. My dining companions insisted that Dino's had somehow achieved the perfect balance of syrup and carbonation, but if this differed from A&W, I couldn't tell.
All root beer aside, if I'm going to get on board with any Dino's hype, it will be because of the fries. As someone who digs shamelessly through fry bags for the crunchy ones, the idea of a bed of fried potato soaked in chicken sauce makes me a little nauseous. But this place isn't famous because of it's ability to win crispy-lovers over to the soggy side. They're famous for the intrigue of that mystery sauce, about which the counter man remains mum. After eating way more than I intended, hoping with every new bite to guess the secret ingredient, I'm still clueless. Ketchup? Oranges? Black tar heroin? All I know is that it had me burping up garlic hours after dinner. If this all sounds worth the hullabaloo to you, let Dino's try to give you a run for your money—at $5.50 for a half a chicken and sides, they won't have to try very hard.
Visit www.dinoschickenandburgers.com for more information
No comments:
Post a Comment