The best items on the Wendy's menu, ranked

This is quite simply a good chocolate shake. There’s no imported Swiss whatevers or bits of crunchy candy whatnots. This is the same chocolate shake Papa used to order me after he’d pick me up from school (yes, I called him Papa). This is, if we’re being picky, a very thick shake best eaten with a spoon, so it is more like a soft serve in a cup. While the gluttonous among us can stretchy-pants their way to the 500-calorie large, I’ve added the Jr. Classic on here because it rings in at just 190 calories. You deserve it, kid.

These are, as advertised, skin-on fries well dusted in sea salt. Mine came just better than room temperature but still pretty darn crispy, a feat I’m sure is the product of some food engineer who clearly deserves a raise. I’d be happy with these fries on the side of a burger at a non-fast-food restaurant, even if they were created by Clark Griswold.

After unwrapping, it looked like somebody had pressed a thumb very hard into the top of this burger. There was also an awkward single slice of iceberg lettuce jutting upwards like a flamboyant winter scarf. But I liked it anyway. The quarter-pound patty is meaty and not overdone. The bun, despite its smush, is decent, and the lettuce, tomato and pickle were all pretty fresh. It had a shit-ton of mayo on it. But as the Wendy’s menu promises, that’s apparently “just the way Dave intended.”

Like every other sandwich I ordered, this one came looking previously sat-upon. But the chicken is crispy, and the tomato, lettuce and pickles are all fairly fresh-seeming. And the mayo, set again to saucy-AF, is kind of perfect on this thing. This is a good sandwich, even if somebody did accidentally try to use it as a cushion.

From what I could tell, the Big Bacon Classic is essentially a Dave’s Single with an ass-load of bacon. The pork layer could quite simply be crispier, and the flavor of it essentially turns this into a bacon sandwich. For some, that sounds like lunchtime. But for those who want a burger to taste like Dave intended, stick with the Single.

Like the aforementioned Big Bacon Classic, the idea here is simple. Put some bacon on it. That’s a good idea for hotel buffets and breakfast burritos, but here, it mostly adds a chewy element. Dave, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but easy on the bacon.

This side item is called Chili. It tastes like Chili. It will not be your favorite. You will not hate it. It’s a bit too watery. But otherwise, as the adorably brief name suggests, it’s Chili. In these divided times, we can all agree on one thing: this qualifies as Chili.

"Carnivores, rejoice!" the Wendy's menu cackles. This rejoicing awards the carnivorous with a bun, two patties equaling a half pound of meat, two slices of cheese and no less than six bacon tongue depressors. The dense pork layer will often come off in large slabs that will mean bites will average approximately 94 percent bacon. You will not find a vegetable here, unless you count ketchup. This might sound un-American, but this is too much bacon.

In the world of odd-shaped bits of chicken parts, you have the actual chunks of chicken served at places like Chick-fil-A, and then you have the ground-up, reconstituted variety at the Golden Arches. From what I can surmise, Wendy’s seems to split the difference by taking chicken goo and reconstituting it in an effort to pretend to be chicken. They’re crispy enough that your kids will like them, but any adult just needs to order a sandwich.

As the name suggests, these are nuggs drenched in one of six sauces, ideal for those who can’t be bothered with dunking. The result is a nugget that’s gone flaccid from a submergence in Sauce Lake. But the Saucy Nuggs are an ideal option for those who would like their fingers and face to forever smell like garlic parm.

As a fan of spicy, this is the thing I ate first from the pile on my plastic tray. Oh, glory to Dave The Almighty, this was bad. It wasn’t the basics—the semi-spicy chicken patty, the veggies, the smushed bun, they were all fine. But then there’s the ghost pepper ranch sauce, the ghost pepper American cheese and the outrageously salty seasoned fried onions, all combining into a flavor volcano that has blown its top and there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere. To. Run.