It was about 12:30 p.m. when 30 members of the Atlanta Food Porn Club streamed into Chick-fil-A with boxes of Popeyes fried chicken. They took seats at the tables and began eating the spicy chicken while customers – some outraged, some amused – looked on. Every now and then, the protestors would stop to kiss one another.

Soon a local TV news reporter was in the parking lot, asking questions stupid enough to qualify her for a job at Fox News. Inside, the Chick-fil-A manager repeatedly told the crowd they could not eat there if they didn’t buy anything. With that, Food Porners lined up to buy soft drinks.

Then, a policeman burst through the door. He was obese and waved at the manager, then demanded to speak to the organizer. Robert stepped forward.

“I invited people to lunch,” he said, “but I wouldn’t say I really organized anything.”

“So, what do you call this – ‘Occupy Chick-fil-A’?” the policeman joked, introducing himself as Officer Kumbley. “Do you plan to set up camp and ask Popeyes to cater your meals?”

Robert laughed.

“No,” he said, “but it’s not a bad idea. You know it might get really raunchy in here at night, with all these people wanting to get married crawling all over each other. Maybe you could repeat your invasion of the Eagle – make them lie facedown while you search their fingers for diamond engagement rings and shredded Bibles.”

Officer Kumbley crossed his arms above his belly and frowned.

“Look, you’re creating a public disturbance. Now, you’re gonna have to get out of here or we’re carting your asses off to jail. You don’t want to get married in jail without a condom – if you know what I mean.”

The manager of the restaurant, Jose, joined Robert and the policeman.

“Good to see you, Jose,” Officer Kumbley said. He turned to Robert. “I eat here several times a week.

Just then, the TV reporter interrupted the three. “I heard your name is Jose,” she said. “Are you from Mexico?”

Jose said that he was indeed.

“I was just wondering – are you a citizen or have a green card or something?” she asked, turning to Officer Kumbley and winking. “We have strict immigration laws.”

Officer Kumbley rolled his eyes. “Of course he’s legal,” he said. “Good Christians like the Cathys would not hire illegal aliens.”

“Look,” Jose said to Robert, “we don’t want you to go to jail. Can you leave in peace?  We will give you coupons for free waffle fries. They are very popular. Maybe we’ll add in a chicken sandwich. I don’t care who you marry.”

He looked around. Lunch finished, many in the crowd were kissing with intensity.

“Thanks for the offer, but we’ll decline,” Robert said. “That’s almost 900 calories right there. How do you manage to put more calories in that sandwich than Popeyes puts in one chicken breast?”

That was part of the absurdity of the Chick-fil-A drama to Robert. The food is unhealthy and could easily be healthier. But the owners are apparently more worried about the gender of married partners.

“We’re not going to occupy the premises,” Robert told the reporter, Jose and Officer Kumbley. “But we did want Dan Cathy to see that the people he maligns are real people. He has a right to his opinion and he may even make more money with homophobic customers turning up in mass to protest our protest. But he’s like a racist objecting to miscegenation 50 years ago. He’s an anachronism.”

Robert rounded up the group.

“Put your tongue back in your own mouth!” he shouted. “It’s time to leave.”

Back to the search

Robert and Janet, who didn’t get a chance to eat some of the Popeyes chicken, headed to Eclipse di Luna for a late lunch. It was one of Robert’s favorite restaurants and probably serves the best tapas in town at very fair prices. The ambiance is cozy, a bit bohemian.

“So, that was fun,” Janet said. “I’m glad you didn’t make us go to jail.”

Robert laughed. “I didn’t see much sense in our joining the 7,000 people the police have arrested in the Occupy movement. It’s amazing what’s happening to this country. My phone will probably be tapped for smuggling Popeyes into Chick-fil-A. Maybe I’ll be imprisoned and tortured in Saudi Arabia for threatening terrorist acts with a chicken leg.”

The food started to arrive – Spanish ribs, red piquillos filled with goat cheese,  plates of meats and cheese, octopus with potatoes – and the two fell silent a moment.

“So, have you found a husband yet?” Janet asked. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the supper club?”

Robert sighed. “No, I’ve had sex with three men in the last week, and I’ve struck all three off the list. I won’t be going to Chick-fil-A with a partner anytime soon, it seems.”

“What was wrong with them?” Janet asked. “Bad in bed?”

“Oh, I didn’t get into bed with anyone. In fact, we didn’t get past my foyer in two cases.”

Janet wrinkled her forehead and looked at Robert quizzically. “Is that what you guys call a ‘blow and go’?” she asked. Robert nodded.

“I don’t want to know more,” Janet said. “It’s funny how you gay men are all up in the air about marriage while you have sex with strangers two steps inside your front door.”

“Well,” Robert said, “at least we don’t move strangers into our homes after three dates, like you lesbians.”

They finished lunch and headed home. Robert couldn’t bring himself to tell Janet that he had another “date” that afternoon.

Food Porn is a fictional series by longtime Atlanta food critic Cliff Bostock. Set in real Atlanta restaurants, it chronicles the adventures of Robert, a gay man in search of a husband — or at least a good meal.