Postcolonial Chicken

The U.S. introduced fast food to the Philippines. Now Jollibee is serving it back to America.

- Yasmin Tayag

"JOLLY MORNING!" is a weird way to be greeted, no matter the context.

But it rang out, like birdsong, from behind the counter of a fast-food joint I visited in the Los Angeles suburbs in May. Although the restaurant's bright overhead lighting and giant menus suggested a typical American chain, something was a little off. Along one wall, a floor-to-ceiling mural depicted a cartoon bee in a chef's hat demonstrating the dance steps of the twist.

The bee is the eponymous mascot of Jollibee, which now has about 80 locations across the United States. Its food seems familiar until you taste it. Chickenjoy, the chain's signature fried chicken, has a golden, rippled exterior, just as you might expect. But tooth meets flesh with a burst of garlic, citrus, and something salty and fermented, a little like soy. What lingers on the tongue is a blast of umami that's so deeply chicken-y, it's hard to square with the mild-flavored meat that Americans have come to know.

The menu's other highlights smack of the surreal. The Aloha Burger is savory-sweet, sporting a halo of grilled pineapple beneath layers of bacon and cheese. Jolly Spaghetti is slathered in a sugary meat sauce and garnished with grated cheese and hot-dog slices. Crisp hand pies ooze purple ube and golden mango.

Jollibee does not serve American food, not exactly. The chain is based in the Philippines, which developed a taste for burgers and fried chicken during its years as a U.S. colony, and has since made the foods its own. Despite Jollibee's off-kilter dishes and feel—or perhaps because of them—Americans are eating it up.

USA Today and