George Saunders

The Booker Prize-winning author on chicken, writing rituals and his affinity with maîtres d’.

- Lee Tran Lam

As a teen, you helped your father at his Chicken Unlimited restaurant in Chicago. I was the delivery boy, and drove this tricked-out Chevy van. Our restaurant served as a gathering place for lonely people who had nowhere else to go – an old man dying of cancer, a manic woman who used to chain-smoke and chain-drink Pepsis, who later jumped into the Chicago River and was saved, against her will, by a guy passing by. So, great training for a writer in the mad variety of life, but also in the practice of having tender feelings for people who, at first, you might dismiss.

Did the job kill your appetite for chicken?

I still like it. But I sometimes think back with horror at the sheer number of calories I ate. I was also trying to be a bodybuilder and was very skinny, so my mission became “bulk up”, while working at a fast-food restaurant where everything, including the soft drinks, gets deep-fried. It was not hard.

You once worked as a field geophysicist in Indonesia. Did you enjoy the local food?