My thoughts on Raising Cane’s: It’s really mid

Fried chicken. A topic of hot commodity. It sparks controversies, grandiose emotions, and heated debates. Remember September 2021? Popeye’s versus KFC? People seem to go crazy for the delicacy that lies beneath a shell of crispy battered coating. 

I’ve found that each family tends to favor one chicken institution over another. For my family, it was Kentucky Fried Chicken — Colonel Sanders had us hooked. As a group of four, the 20 piece bucket, biscuits, gravy and, of course, coleslaw made for a perfect full course meal. 

While Popeye’s served mean rice and beans and Chick Fil A a killer chicken biscuit, nothing quite compared to the taste we got from a red and white bucket of KFC. We had a family of die-hard, loyal fans.

Last weekend, a craving hit. 

Half way into the semester, I felt myself missing the flavors of home. Not the Korean jjigaes made by my mom or the grilled steaks by my dad, rather, I was searching for the crunch I had experienced once before. I needed some fried chicken. 

Living on west campus, I had passed by Raising Cane’s on many occasions. Its bright red sign had taunted me times before, luring me in. I had been familiar with the smells wafting from its fryer, emulating a savory and salty aroma. I had been strong, held off — wanting to save money and use my meal swipes at the dining hall instead. 

But eventually, the time had come. 

It was a gloomy day, on Commonwealth Avenue. My roommate and I, being our naive selves, didn’t check the forecast before heading out to Coolidge Corner. How could you blame us? We were eager to get to Trader Joes. Our room was in dire need of a snack restock. We needed the necessities — yogurt pretzels and chicken soup dumplings, of course. 

With arms full of bags, we left the shop excited to get back home. Rain. No, not rain. A downpour greeted us. With no umbrellas at our disposal, we sprinted our way back home, hugging our valuables close to our chest. 

Wet and cold, minutes before arriving at our final destination I hear, “The bag is going to split.” Quickly we found shelter inside our nearest covered destination: Raising Cane’s. Could it be our savior? Maybe it was destiny. 

Finding ourselves conveniently inside the location, we decided there was only one thing left to do — indulge, feast and order some fried chicken. We collected our “Caniac Combo” to share, reorganized our things, and mustered up the energy to make it back to the safety and comfort of our humble abode. 

Six fingers, crinkle cut fries, Texas toast, coleslaw, two containers of canes sauce, all complemented by a 32-ounce diet Pepsi (my roommate’s choice, I don’t choose to indulge in sparkling beverages). Nothing screams more “all american”. Fried with a side of fried with a side of carbs and vegetables slathered in cream. Health? I’ve never heard of her. 

I had high expectations, I mean how could I not? I had heard rumors of the so-called “addictive” nature of the Cane’s Sauce, and praises of the delicacy of the Texas Toast. 

Opening the plastic box, I had expected a pot of gold, to be taken aback and excited to dig in, my eyes to be blinded by a shimmer. Instead, I was greeted with a sorry surprise.  

The fries looked limp, soggy, and were colored a pale gray rather than an appetizing tan golden brown. 

The chicken was sprawled half haphazardly inside the box — its coating had holes and the missing pieces had shed like greasy snowflakes inside the plastic container. 

The bread seemed to be the only saving grace, promising, looking perfectly toasted — its exterior was shone with a buttery sheen. Flipped over in the upper left corner were the two coveted Cane’s Sauce and a small plastic carton of Coleslaw, slightly open and alarmingly leaking a white substance, dampening the morsels around it. 

But I pushed past my first impressions — didn’t your mother always tell you to look past first appearances? After all, I’ve always believed in taste over all else. You can never judge something by its appearance — except maybe for this case.

The bread? While its texture may have had a satisfying chew, one bite and an overwhelming yeasty aroma filled my mouth — it just gave bread. The Hawaiian sweet rolls you get from the store undeniably trump this doughy lump. 

The fries left pools of oil that coated my tongue and left me searching for water or any acidity to cut through the fat. Looking to find relivement from the greasy substance, I turned to the coleslaw but was greeted with a limp and mushy assortment of cabbages that were far too mayo soaked for my personal taste. 

For the chicken, it was just, well, chicken. Nothing too good or too bad. Slightly dry, meaty and covered with a standard crispy batter. Now for the sauce? Mid. It was no saving grace, not a discovery of the century. It seemed to be a play on the well-known thousand island with a splash of acidity. 

So here on this gloomy Sunday afternoon I found myself at two conclusions. My socks? Still damp. My chicken craving? Still rampant. Next time, I’ll stick to KFC.