.png)
It was the perfect grift. Until it wasn't.
Like many other 22 year-old men working their first job out of college, I was pretty broke. I lived alone in an Upper East Side apartment and paid 80% of my monthly income for the privilege. That left 20% of my paychecks to cover bar tabs at the various watering holes along 2nd Avenue (shout out to O’Flanagan’s, Bar Coastal, The Stumble Inn, and Sessions 73). I certainly did not fuck around with groceries very often.
On the rare occasion I opted not to eat wings (Kerry’s Way) or dollar slices for dinner, I’d pop into the Gristedes on 78th and 3rd on my walk home from the subway to grab a cheap dinner. One of the best ways to achieve this was with a rotisserie chicken, a bag of frozen veggies, and some Minute rice. This was my gourmet “homemade” dinner of choice. It was easy, inexpensive, relatively healthy, and I could pick that carcass clean over the course of the week whenever I needed a quick snack or a half assed chicken salad sandwich.
The only problem was, as usual, other people.
I wasn’t the only one on the Upper East Side who had taken note of the sustenance and convenience provided by the humble grocery store rotisserie. Therefore, it became increasingly difficult for Gristedes to churn them out fast enough to satiate all of their hungry customers. More and more frequently, my afterwork jaunts to the prepared food aisle were met with a hot bar devoid of poultry.
Normally, this would have been a disaster. As my friends and family are all too aware, nothing throws me into an emotional tailspin like having to make a last-minute change of plans on an empty stomach. However, my despair was eased by a sign making a bold proclamation.
Rotisserie chicken. Guaranteed hot & ready weeknights 5-7 PM or it’s FREE.
Every time there were no rotisserie chickens in stock, Gristedes would give you a voucher for a free one if you complained. So I made it a point to complain. A lot.
I would intentionally go to the store at like 6:58 PM when I knew there was a high probability that they’d sold out of chicken for the night, just to stockpile future fowl freebies in my otherwise empty wallet. On more than one occasion, I mortified my friends by making a pit stop on the way out to happy hour just to get my poultry paperwork. Once I even anonymously called ahead to verify that there were no chickens in stock before jogging over to the store to claim a coup credit.
I’m not really sure why I did any of this. I guess in the cutthroat environs of Manhattan island, any currency seemed valuable. The prospect of complimentary chicken on the horizon was an opportunity too delicious to pass up.
Anyway, this little scheme worked brilliantly for the entire winter and spring of 2012, as my grocery bills plummeted and Mad River’s well whiskey sales soared proportionally. It was the perfect system. Take a detour to Gristedes every day on my way home from work. Best case? Get a free chicken with an existing voucher. Worst case? Accumulate another voucher to add to the collection.
My stack of coupons (and my waistline) grew and grew over the next couple of months. But, as New Found Glory once said, nothing gold can stay.
As spring turned to summer, Gristedes seemingly never had chicken anymore. In fact, they didn’t really have anything on the shelves. The place had come under new management and really started falling apart. It was damn near impossible to cash in on my complimentary cluckers. Despite possessing around 40 vouchers, I was only able to claim 3 chickens in June, 1 in July, and none in August.
Then, tragically, on the Tuesday after Labor Day, my Gristedes location closed completely.
The dream was on life support, but not fully dead. Gristedes was a New York City institution. Surely there were other locations. Even if I had to walk 20 blocks out of the way, there was no way I was going to let 36 free rotisserie chickens go to waste.
So the next day, I waltzed into the next-closest Gristedes on 65th & 1st. I was drenched in sweat from the early September humidity and completely winded from my exclusive dietary choices of wings, pizza, and rotisserie chicken. Looking like a man possessed, I anxiously strode to the prepared food aisle, and, to my delight, located a few fresh, plump birds to choose from. I made my choice, headed to the register, and displayed my coupon proudly.
But my hopes were quickly dashed by the grumpy cashier, who pointed smugly to the fine print:
Offer valid at 3rd Avenue location only.
I never shopped at Gristedes again and they can burn in hell for all I care. Apparently they’d rather close an entire supermarket than honor their culinary commitments to their customers. Not a day goes by that I don’t mourn the loss of those 36 schmaltzy, golden, glorious rotisserie chickens that could have temporarily occupied my protruding beer belly. How tasty our memories could have been!
Anyway, that’s the other chicken debacle. For the original, click here.