The founder's youngest son got called gordito the day he came home from the hospital — round cheeks, round everything, a baby built like a little bread roll. The frito came later, because the boy would not eat anything that hadn't met hot oil. Tostones. Fries. Chicken. If it was fried, he was interested.

By the time he could talk, nobody in the family used his real name. He was Gordito Frito, and he answered to it proudly.

The kitchen behind this brand is the same kitchen that fed him: sour orange and garlic in a bowl overnight, oregano crushed between two palms, a heavy pot of oil that nobody was allowed to walk past too fast. Pica pollo the Dominican way — bone-in, hard-fried, loud with wasakaka.

We cook one batch a day because that's how it was cooked at home. You make what you can make well, you serve it hot, and when it's finished, it's finished. Se acabó. Come back tomorrow.

Out of respect for a kid who never asked to be a logo, you will never see his name or his face here. Just the food he made us fry over and over until we got it right.