Once a month or so, I call in a lunch order at Evanston Chicken Shack. They offer fried chicken, fried fish, rib tips, and hot links, but I usually opt for five wings with salt and pepper, hot sauce on the side. After I drive it back to the office my old Hyundai smells of chicken fat and grease for a full week; crumbs have taken up permanent residence in the cracks of my hot-sauce-specked desk chair. Nestled among mounds of crinkle-cut fries, the wings are steaming hot even after a 15-minute car ride, thanks to careful packaging in a red-and-white cardboard box with the look of late 70s design. On the side is a tiny plastic container of terrible coleslaw. Apart from that my only complaint is with the hot sauce: more, more, I want more. —Seth Zurer