The LA Chicken Caesar Wrap Wars

Every time I order a caesar salad with chicken breast I feel like a real basic bitch. If I’m trying to be a fun person and I agree to the inclusion of fries and a martini (gin, wet, twist,) I feel even more defeated, even though the truth is that joy is imminent. A caesar hits. It slaps. And we’re all trying to cram in more protein via the chicken, and some semblance of fleeting pleasure via the carbs and the martini. But in burrito country, which LA very much is, one must occasionally bridge the gap between responsible ordering and indulgence. A portable, hand-held chicken caesar I can eat whilst driving and screaming? Sign me up, brother.

This fervor for chicken caesar wraps, which are actually a nostalgic LA food at this point, has hit odd summer heights, and I’m blaming Armen from Mini Kabob.

Mini Kabob doesn’t need my press. Armen doesn’t need me wearing a Mini Kabob t-shirt. They don’t need our dollars. He’s doing just fine, because he’s a genius. And what this infuriating genius did was make sure to master every element of LA’s Platonic Ideal of a Chicken Caesar Wrap and then treat its release like a sneaker drop. (I’ve never participated in a sneaker drop but I’m told this is the comp.)

I first saw Mini Kabob’s chicken caesar wrap on a food influencer’s instagram a week+ before they were going to be available to the public. I hate myself for every part of that sentence. It looked incredible, and the guy eating it was so, so happy. They were only being served one day a week, and my teammates Jenny and Vittoria and I got there only to learn that the wraps…they were long gone. I watched a woman sitting out front doing a little dance as she ate hers. I was livid.

And then came an email from my sweet Armen, saying pre-orders would be open at 7 pm on Monday for Thursday pick-ups. That Monday at 7 pm I was sitting at dinner, in public, in a restaurant, telling my companion to please shut up for a second, as I anxiously refreshed the Mini Kabob pre-order form. Once again…they were gone. I had failed myself and my comrades and I took screenshots to try to explain. They were heartbroken.

We tried again the following week, our hunger and rage growing in unison. No luck. We made unsatisfactory versions of chicken caesar wraps at home, comparing notes and bitching. Around this time, the lists started getting passed around.

While the rest of country focused on the Epstein client list, which contains approximately zero mysteries, we honed in on articles like this to try to find attainable alternatives. We ate other subpar wraps which shall remain unnamed but you know exactly which ones I mean.

And then, another email: the chicken caesar availability had been expanded greatly. This time Vittoria stepped up to do the ordering, and she secured the bag: 3 wraps, $80+. We did not feel less insane.

Today was the day, and as we quietly consumed our lofty prize, we agreed— this probably is the single best chicken caesar wrap I’ve ever had, and I’m ok with never having it again. The stress cycle has been completed, and that is sufficient.

Except the stress cycle did not end at the lunch table. It continued for several hours later, after we went our separate ways. Collectively, we do not have regrets. Cramps? Sure. Garlic breath? Very much. A change in afternoon plans? Yes, ma’am. But we did it. We got a taste of what I’d still call LA’s best chicken caesar salad wrap.

And now…a martini (gin, wet, Tums.)