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between the two men, there was little surprising or newsworthy in this development, and the PM had yawned off the information. He had been in the midst of formulating a follow-up question that might steer the conversation toward more productive grounds when his sensitive nose latched onto a familiar smell.
    Stopping short, the PM sucked in a full whiff of the distinctive scent.
    “What’s that . . . Who’s that . . . Where’s that coming from?” he stuttered with disbelief.
    The amused janitor pointed toward an area housing overflow office space for the Current Mayor’s junior staff.
    His nasal senses fully engaged, the PM stepped into a narrow corridor of cubicles.
    • • •
    ALL OF THE desks were darkened and empty, save for the one at the far end of the row, where a bleary-eyed staffer bent over his desk, staring hypnotically into a computer monitor as he munched on a leg of fried chicken.
    The young man wore a T-shirt, blue jeans, and high-top canvas sneakers—not unlike the outfit the PM had favored in his youth.
    A well-worn bicycle painted the reddish orange color of the Golden Gate Bridge leaned against the corner of the cubicle, the chinstrap of a plastic helmet looped around its handlebars.
    The PM paused, struck by another image from his past. He couldn’t help remembering the beat-up bike he’d used to get around during his early days in San Francisco.
    Still reflecting on the similarities, the PM surveyed the chicken-eating scene.
    The staffer’s desktop was stacked with note-filled tablets, scribbled-on sheets of paper, and several heavy binders containing drafts of pending city ordinances. A stained coffee cup perched atop one of the piles, its remaining liquid having long gone cold.
    It was rare to find any showing of motivation in the lower ranks of an outgoing administration; most political staff spent the transition period angling for their next job. This fellow, however, was so surprisingly intent on his legislative project—and the fried chicken—that he hadn’t noticed the PM and the janitor standing nearby.
    The PM squinted at the name tag hanging from the staffer’s neck. Beneath the cheery photo of a youthful dark-skinned man with a grinning smile read the words, “Spider Jones.”
    After a long moment of silent observation, the PM cleared his throat to draw the staffer’s attention.
    “Say, son,” the PM had asked, pointing to the conspicuous green and gold takeout package discarded in the canister near the staffer’s desk. “Where’d you get that meal?”
    “New place . . . just opened up in North Beach. It’s unbelievable,” the man had replied between mouthfuls. “I’d offer you a bite but . . .” He’d smiled and looked greedily down at his remaining portion.
    “No, no, that’s all right,” the PM had replied, holding his hands up in refusal, although his mouth had begun to water.
    With difficulty, he’d meted out his oft-repeated mantra.
    “I don’t eat anything that comes in a box.”
    • • •
    IT HADN’T TAKEN long for the Previous Mayor to track down the name and address of the new fried-chicken restaurant. That had been a relatively straightforward procedure.
    Obtaining an audience with the camera-shy proprietor, however, had been a far more difficult task.
    Despite the restaurant’s unprecedented popularity, James Lick had declined all of the local news media’s requests for interviews, directing their inquiries to his uncooperative and decidedly unphotogenic business associate, Harold Wombler.
    As a result, little had been written in the culinary press about San Francisco’s growing fixation with Lick’s signature fried chicken. The man behind the addictive recipe remained a mystery.
    • • •
    ALTHOUGH FEW DETAILS were known about the restaurant’s owner, the biography of its historical namesake was well documented.
    A figure from San Francisco’s Gold Rush past, the original James Lick was commemorated on freeway signs,