
Chick-fil-A, America’s favorite drive-thru confessional booth, has decided it’s time for sweater weather, PSL selfies, and the annual reminder that even God’s chosen poultry can rebrand when the leaves turn. This fall, they’ve unleashed a lineup so quaintly autumnal you’d almost forget their corporate tithe ledger still smells faintly of sanctified bigotry.
Front and center is the Pretzel Cheddar Club Sandwich—a culinary marriage of soft pretzel bun, smoky bacon, and the type of cheddar that tastes like it’s wearing flannel. It’s the kind of sandwich you eat while reassuring yourself that “times have changed” as you park in the same lot where, not so long ago, millions of dollars were funneled toward “traditional values” campaigns. You know, those wholesome initiatives aimed at protecting marriage from the horrors of two women filing joint taxes.
And then there are the Cherry Berry drinks, because nothing says “forgiveness” like a vaguely pink beverage sparkling under fluorescent light. They’re marketed as the perfect refresher after a long day of apple-picking or praying for the souls of those godless oat milk drinkers at Starbucks. The Cherry Berry is as non-threatening as their customer service smiles—both equally trained, both equally strategic.
Let’s be clear: the Jesus Chicken PR machine is not stupid. They know autumn is the season when even the hardest hearts soften under the weight of cinnamon air fresheners and Hallmark movies. They also know that if you throw enough cheddar and pretzel buns at a public with the memory span of a TikTok scroll, people might stop asking pesky questions like, “Hey, did you ever officially apologize for that whole funding anti-LGBTQ+ programs thing?”
They didn’t. They pivoted. They curated a narrative as skillfully as they marinate their chicken—sweet, salty, and capable of making you forget you’re chewing on something with a complicated history. Now, instead of discussing “family values,” they’re talking “flavor values,” and suddenly the conversation shifts from your right to marry to your right to waffle fries.
Here’s the thing—food has always been political. From bread lines to brunch reservations, what we eat, where we eat, and who we eat with has meaning. Chick-fil-A’s new fall menu isn’t just about autumn comfort; it’s about market comfort—calming nervous shareholders who want to tap into the cozy seasonal market without scaring away the modern consumer who maybe isn’t thrilled about eating under a halo of corporate morality policing.
Some people will tell you to separate the chicken from the church. “It’s just a sandwich,” they’ll say. And maybe for them, it is. But for those of us who’ve been the target of the very “values” that funded their legacy, every bite is a complicated act of consumption. It’s eating the art while ignoring the artist, except here the art is a crispy chicken filet and the artist is a conservative PAC in a polo shirt.
To their credit, the food is good. Damn good. The kind of good that makes you wrestle with your principles in the parking lot, holding a Pretzel Cheddar Club in one hand and a sense of moral clarity in the other, watching both slowly wilt in the Texas heat.
This fall, Chick-fil-A is banking on the fact that the smell of toasted pretzel buns will overpower the scent of old scandals. That cherry syrup and crushed ice will wash away the aftertaste of their political donations. That Americans, in their endless pursuit of cozy seasonal vibes, will forgive just about anything if you wrap it in cheddar and serve it with waffle fries.
Final Thought: The leaves may be falling, but in the house of Jesus Chicken, redemption is seasonal—and always comes with a side of Polynesian sauce.