I've been staring at a blank Word document for ages, trying to think of an angle to take on this whole "fried chicken" thing. Trying - and failing spectacularly. Fried chicken the institution? Fried chicken: a retrospective? Famous fried chicken? It’s not that I don’t have an opinion about fried chicken; on the contrary, I have a surprising number of opinions devoted to the subject of chicken in general and the fried variety in particular.
Rather than coming up with a clever hook to draw you, dear reader, into the Byzantine complications of an artful argument in favor of fried chicken, I’m going to lay before you a selection of its manifold appeals, “the whole accompanied by appropriate scenery and brilliantly illuminated with the Author's own candles.”
First off, let’s discuss Fried Chicken the Concept. Frying is the ubiquitous preparation of the ubiquitous poultry; you’re as likely to find it at your Aunt Beulah’s Mid-Summer Family Get-Together And Hoohah as being served at your local take-away. And every culture with chickens seems to have some version of it available; everyone seems to like fried chicken. Fried goose? Grouse? Ptarmigan? Emu? Ostrich? Turkey? Unlikely.
And speaking as a former, and fairly committed, vegetarian, the first thing I broke my meat-fast with was a serving of fried chicken. I’ve never looked back.
Next up: Fried Chicken the Institution. Fried chicken isn’t just the ubiquitous preparation of the ubiquitous poultry; it’s also an institutionalized preparation of the bird. Why, you probably walked past a fried chicken chain outlet at some point today! Perhaps, during your last visit to Los Angeles, you passed by a Roscoe’s Fried Chicken and Waffle House? Yup, they’re everywhere – and their custom is a healthy mix of neighborhood types, both ancient and modern, and local hipsters, who claim to be drawn by the kitsch-factor but enjoy the fare with suspect enthusiasm. I’ve eaten both waffles and fried chicken at Roscoe’s, and feel no compunction in telling you that they’re both delicious. Perhaps your most recent voyage took you to Chicago, where you wandered past, or even into, one of the ten thousand Harold’s Fried Chicken Shacks? (Numbers approximate.) Did the tiny chef wielding an oversized axe and chasing a gigantic chicken, all outlined in neon tubing, call to you? Or the sweet perfume of deep-fried chicken parts? Indeed, sheer numbers (there really are a lot of Harold’s outlets) may have overwhelmed you to the point that you couldn’t resist.
My point is this: I can think of two major fried chicken institutions in two major cities off the top of my head, and I suspect that thirty seconds on Google would reveal an entire world full of such. Why, even here in Little Portugal, in London, there are two restaurants devoted solely to fried chicken within a single block’s radius of our front door – and one even claims to be “Chicago-style.”
And how about Famous Fried Chicken? I don’t mean famous fried chicken venues, but rather fried chicken outside the restaurant – fried chicken and culture, if you will. One of the most famous (and, to keep with a theme, ubiquitous) contracts cases in American law schools, the sonorously titled FRIGALIMENT IMPORTING CO., v. B.N.S. INTERNATIONAL SALES CORP., has taught generations of bright-eyed young legal hopefuls the difference between roasting, frying, and stewing chickens. And, of course, there’s the infamous urban myth about Kentucky Fried Chicken’s “non-chicken,” sometimes referred to as the “vat creature” or “Animal 59,” and spoken of with great reverence by untold numbers of college students (and the occasional meat blogger). Who hasn’t wondered whether KFC’s chicken might be unnaturally good?
All these strike me as a sampling of fair arguments in favor of fried chicken, but the proof of the pudding is, as they say, in the eating of it. Fried chicken is delicious. That’s pretty much the long and the short of it. You can’t deny it. Fried chicken, like so much cursed pirate gold, calls to you. It calls to all of us.
Fried Chicken IS cursed pirate gold. Although it isn't the most... gourmet... meat in the tournament, it really is seductive. Waking up in the middle of the night demanding battered-and-fried chicken parts isn't an uncommon feeling for me.
I know of one semi-eccentric Midwestern millionaire who, when overcome with similar pangs, used to use his private jet to go two states over to Kansas City, just to visit Stroud's.
(For Kansas City natives, Stroud's amusingly kept to their no-reservations policy, so he had to wait the usual 45 minutes for a table)
(And it was worth it)
(http://www.stroudsrestaurant.com/)
Posted by: Jared | January 28, 2007 at 07:18 PM
I've always been considered a good cook, but I never felt like one til I perfected the art of fried chicken. My first platter of really excellent chicken... I cried. I took a picture of it. And I made tons for my whole family, so they could really know... I am now a good cook. Fried chicken is important.
Posted by: Nancy Ayers | August 17, 2007 at 03:35 PM