Restaurant Review - Bird feeder

Rounding up Atlanta’s crispiest and juiciest fried chicken



Your fingers get greasy. You hold a curious, irregularly shaped piece with both hands, examining the varied shades of rust and beige and mahogany. There are an impossible number of tiny ripples and peaks on the surface. Then you bite. The first thing that hits your tastes buds — whack! — is crackly, briny skin, which you chew with gusto, perhaps nodding to yourself in approval.

Now for the flesh underneath. You take a quick breath and hope for utter juiciness as you launch into the white or dark meat (you’ve known from a tender age which one you prefer). The meat is mild yet rich. Having appeased your urgent craving, it’s only now that you think to pick up a fork and sample the collards and mac-n-cheese in their small bowls.

Ah, those first, hallowed moments with a plate of really good fried chicken.

The gospel bird has been gracing Southern tables long before Col. Harland Sanders began franchising his chicken enterprise in 1955. Damon Lee Fowler, author of Fried Chicken: The World’s Best Recipes From Memphis to Milan, From Buffalo to Bangkok, states that instructions for fried chicken have been included in nearly every Southern cookbook since Mary Randolph’s The Virginia House-Wife, published in 1824.

Fried chicken’s origins, like most iconic Southern foods, are nebulous. Rife with racial, social and cultural misconceptions and stereotypes, the subject is one that incites particularly vehement arguments amongst culinary historians. Deep-frying has been a common cooking practice in African countries for centuries, and recipes for variations on fried chicken exist in northern European records dating back to medieval times. It’s fairly safe to say that what has become known as Southern fried chicken is largely descended from the technique mastered by slave (and subsequently freed African-American) cooks in white upper-class households in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Murky history aside, there’s also the matter of the subtle yet crucial variations in preparation. Thin, tender crust or thick, crispy crust? Brined in salt-water, marinated in buttermilk or lemon juice, both or neither? Highly seasoned or just a dash of salt and pepper? Lard or vegetable oil? Pan-fried or deep-fried? These seemingly small variations in method are matters of solemn importance to fried chicken aficionados. As with most strong opinions about food, I suspect these preferences are solidified in childhood.

I’ll admit I had no spiritual fried chicken epiphanies as a child. My mother was a ’70s Shake-n-Baker. Her mother, a farm wife, had the bizarre habit of adding water and covering the pan while the chicken was frying, obliterating any possibility for crispy skin. I was reasonably apathetic about the browned bird until the renowned fried chicken on Tuesday nights began at Decatur’s Watershed.

Made from a recipe jointly developed by the restaurant’s executive chef Scott Peacock and his friend and mentor, Edna Lewis, the chicken is first brined for a day, marinated in buttermilk a second day, then cooked in a combination of lard and butter flavored with a slice of country ham. This is decadent stuff, even in the calorie-laden world of fried chicken (but we won’t go there). The chicken has an elusive, smoky quality. The crust is quite thin, though impeccably crispy, and the meat is gently sweet.

I was burning my fingers on a scalding piece of Watershed’s chicken one night when it dawned on me that I hadn’t given much thought to what other finely realized fried chicken specimens Atlanta might offer. I’d recently written an article on the disappointing barbecue scene in this city, and wondered if fried chicken would fare better.

Someone pointed me in the direction of Tiburon Grille in Virginia-Highland. A plate of fried chicken selling for $9.50 is listed near the bottom of the menu amidst Mediterranean and New American entrees selling for $16 to $25. But the relative bargain price in no way means that it’s treated like the bastard child: Mindfully raised Bell & Evans chicken breast is pan-fried in a cast-iron skillet to a deep, reddish brown. Served with collards and buttery mashed potatoes in the dining room’s dim lighting, the dish had an old-fashioned, romantic aura.

The chicken at Greenwood’s in Roswell, on the other hand, seems rebellious. Bill Greenwood deep-fries his birds in a thick batter redolent with coarse black pepper and sweetened with honey. True to form at his restaurant, you get four whopping pieces of white and dark meat on your plate, along with two sides. (The best sides for fried chicken merits another meditation and investigation all its own, but I’d go with the broccoli casserole and rice and gravy here.) This is the kind of crust you just peel off with your hands and pop in your mouth. And it tastes great cold for breakfast the next morning.

When I hit the soul food restaurants, my dormant fried chicken gene really kicked in. I’ve been to Thelma’s Kitchen before, but had passed on the chicken. Now I know better. Hers is salty and crispy in all the right ways. I love to look around the dining room, watching the other customers literally hunched over their plates with focused expressions on their faces.

Same goes for the Busy Bee Cafe near Morehouse. The restaurant’s name is no joke. The place was packed at 2 p.m. on a weekday afternoon. Their “beelicious” fried chicken, with a smooth, crunchy crust, is simple but deeply satisfying. I ate here with a friend who spoke nostalgically about his father’s chicken fried in beer batter throughout the meal. Fried chicken, for many folks, is memory food.

Have I found disappointments in my explorations? A couple. Heretic that I am, I wasn’t crazy about the fried chicken at the venerable Son’s Place, the descendent of Deacon Burton’s universally celebrated bird. It’s not that the meat wasn’t moist or the crust unseasoned, but it was lukewarm every time I visited. They keep it in a holding bin from which it’s served cafeteria-style. I went three times between noon and 1 p.m. trying to get it while it was hot, but it was tepid each time. Maybe they need to have a Krispy Kreme-esque “Hot Fried Chicken Now” sign outside.

For the record, I’m also not a fan of the Colonnade’s fried chicken. It’s aggressively saline, and the white meat is often dry.

Popular though fried chicken may be in the South, Southerners don’t have the copyright on this dish, says Damon Lee Fowler in his cookbook. Variations on chicken fried in fat exist in almost every culture on the planet. I scouted out some non-Southern examples on Buford Highway and found one with which I’ve fallen in love. Harue Cafe, a lovely, tranquil Korean spot, serves a whole chicken cut up into slightly larger-than-bite-size pieces piled on a platter. There’s no seasoning in the crust, but a bowl of salt, pepper and sesame seeds is served alongside. You dip the chicken in the seasonings bowl and chow. There’s also a sweet-and-sour sauce that I recommend you ask for on the side. It’s familiar yet novel. Any open-minded Southerner will love it.

Meanwhile, it seems my search for traditional fried chicken will continue indefinitely. I had lunch at Gladys Knight and Ron Winan’s Chicken and Waffles in the middle of writing this article. Sure, it’s a more expensive, slightly corporate take on a soul food restaurant, but you know what? Its fried chicken — particularly the dark meat — is righteously crispy and succulent. When you tear off that all-important first bite of skin, the juice dribbles out and adds a savory note to a surprisingly flavorful pecan waffle. And their dusky collards ain’t bad either.

Gosh it’s nice to have some positive things to say about Atlanta’s Southern food for a change.

bill.addison@creativeloafing.com




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