The Ghost Pepper Delivers. The Fried Pickles Don’t.

We landed at BWI just after 9pm EST. I ask the standard question that prevents me from getting home only to realize that people are hungry and an unreasonable expectation exists for me that I immediately go back on the road to buy something to eat.

In rare form, Abigail doesn’t want anything which gives a dad an even rarer opportunity to pick what he wants for once. A Popeyes ghost pepper sandwich. 50% it’s delicious, 50% nobody asks for a bite because it’s spicy. Highly recommend.

Next, the limited time fried pickles. My name is David, and I was victimized by the FOMO. The fried pickles had zero warmth left but weren’t soggy either. The real issue is they missed any resemblance of an actual pickle. The sourness — the whole reason you eat a pickle — wasn’t there. I cracked one open and found a withered, dehydrated slice of cucumber inside. That’s not a fried pickle. That’s fried breading with a garnish.

Abigail refused to taste them. Avianna belongs to the group with the immature palate and lifelong pickle aversion. So no second opinions were available.

Would I get it again: No.

Ghost pepper sandwich though: Every time.