Summary
In a froth of flapper-era abandon, a nameless metropolis exhales steam and saxophones while Hap Ward’s moon-faced everyman—part clown, part reluctant Odysseus—stumbles from greasy-spoon hash-house to glittering cabaret in pursuit of the elusive Chicken à la King, a dish that has become, by dint of rumor and tabloid hyperbole, the edible Grail of the season. Gale Henry, all angular elbows and sidewinding glances, pirouettes into the fable as a dime-a-dance girl who believes the entrée is coded language for a hidden cache of emeralds; Milburn Morante, whiskers twitching like a metronome, shadows them as both foil and accidental sage, a White-Russian émigré who once cooked for grand dukes and now flips pennies on a hotplate. The narrative loops through alleyways scented of burnt lard and violet gin, past marquees flickering like damaged synapses, until the trio crash a rooftop soirée where tuxedoed swells place bets on which of them will first bite into the mythical bird. No actual fowl appears; instead the film unspools a hallucination of paper feathers, ticker-tape, and a single white plate that spins on a linen table like a compass gone berserk. In the final reel the city itself seems to swallow the quest: neon signs stutter, elevated trains screech, and the protagonists—mouths smeared with imaginary gravy—burst into laughter that ricochets off brickwork like shrapnel, leaving only the echo of a gag that refuses to resolve.
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