Fried Chicken is for Lovers

Buddha Ruksa Fried Chicken

2008-08-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

As the husband and I drove home from Buddha Ruksa last night, he wondered whether their fried chicken was blog-worthy. I said sure, why not? He countered with, well then what about General Tso's chicken, would you blog about that? I said that I guess it would depend on how good it was. I'm probably not going to write about the General Tso's chicken from the Safeway, but possibly will write about the orange chicken from Panda Express. Clearly these are not purveyors of down home southern fried chicken, but the chicken is definitely fried, so what the hell....

The husband has been talking up the crispy garlic chicken at Buddha Ruksa for years, and he got on such a tear about it at one point last year during my post-baby confinement that he got take out. Honestly, I can't remember what it was like then, since I was probably rapidly shoving it in my face over the sink so that I could get back to the screaming milk-crazed infant. Now that the milk-crazed infant has turned into a respectable and generally well-behaved toddler, we often take him out to eat with us, that is when we decide that we don't need to buy gas that week. So, at four in the afternoon last Sunday when the husband and I were so starved we couldn't stand it anymore, we headed over to West Seattle to once again try the crispy garlic chicken.

Here's the good stuff I have to say about Buddha Ruksa: The decor is nice, and the gold carvings on the walls held my son's interest for several minutes. The wait staff is great--attentive and adoring of my kid (what parent doesn't want the waitresses to coo over their baby?). The appetizers were tasty. We got the crispy calamari and the crab wonton (aka crab rangoon, which if on a menu, the husband will certainly order). The husband said that the calamari was some of the best he's ever had. Even the kid liked it, and he's kinda picky.

Now the bad: We ordered the wonton phad thai, and the fact that I didn't like it was purely a result of my inability to fully read descriptions of menu items. I saw the words phad thai in the title, then read the part about "fried stuffed wonton" then promptly stopped reading. Had I continued, I may have realized that this dish has no noodles--the wonton are the replacement. So, it came out looking like regular phad thai until I noticed that what looked like noodles were in fact bean sprouts. Have I mentioned before how much I hate bean sprouts and how when I order phad thai I often ask for it without bean sprouts or at the very least remove the bean sprouts from the plate before I begin eating? No? Well, let's just say I don't really care for them. They're crispy and bitter and weird. So, I was not a big fan of the wonton phad thai (although the wonton part was good).

And the controversial: I know everyone LOVES the crispy garlic chicken and swears by it and wants to have its baby, but I don't really get it. It was so sweet, almost cloying, that I felt like I had to brush my teeth immediately afterward...like I'd eaten too many Hershey bars. The meat itself was a little dry too and not spicy enough. Sorry, world, but I will not be having the crispy garlic chicken's baby.

Finally, while the fortune cookies were predictably yummy, my fortune was,"You will read some information that will help you." I honestly can't think of a lamer fortune. Maybe, "You will drive home without incident," or "Your mother will call you this weekend." Whoever wrote that fortune should be fired.

Paleta mania

2008-07-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

For the two people who read this blog, so sorry for the lack of fried chicken posts. Turns out, there's just not enough time in the week for finding new and exciting fried chicken while simultaneously working full-time, raising a toddler, and trying to make sure everyone has clean underwear. There's a lot of places I've had good and bad chicken in the last couple of years but didn't write about them immediately and now can't remember enough details. Here's a brief rundown of places about which I'll hopefully write: Thompson's Point of Vie w (so-so fried wings, but AMAZING spicy bbq wings), the Wellington (ungodly salty), and of course the Kingfish Cafe (so delicious, and I just noticed that they have chicken and waffles on the brunch menu--can't think of a better reason to go).

Now the real reason for this post...a new ice-cream place in White Center called Full Tilt. So many people have already discussed the opening of this new joint (for example here and here and even here) that I won't go into detail about the new owners (whom I haven't officially met anyway, though they seem like nice people) or the pinball (which I suck at, so it definitely takes a backseat to the ice cream). Instead, I'd like to take you on a trip to a little town called Nuevo Casas Grandes, in the wild state of Chihuahua, Mexico. As I've previously mentioned, while in graduate school, I spent many summers in Mexico "doing research" (which actually amounted to a lot of hard work on other people's projects, very little research of my own, and very much drinking of cheap Mexican beer). For the most part, I stayed in very small towns with very few amenities, requiring a trip to the big city on the weekends to do laundry, buy groceries, and ogle the menacing Mennonnites. One of the highlights of these trips was a visit to one of the many paleterias scattered throughout the town. All of them were called "La Michoacana," making meet ups difficult:

Person 1: Let's meet at La Michoacana at 3.
Person 2: La Michoacana on the plaza?
Person 1: No the one on the way out of town.
Person 2: The one on the left or the right?
Person 1: On the left just before the turnoff for the prison.
Person2: MMMM, prison paletas.

Like probably every one else in North America, I grew up on the popsicles from the grocery store that come with two sticks that you break in half and share with your brother, or in my case, taunt your brother with and then eat both yourself. Paletas are definitely not your brother's popsicles. They are made with chunks of real fresh fruit and either agua or leche. My favorites were pineapple, melon, and watermelon, which usually had seeds--just so you know you're getting real watermelon. The cream ones are good too (I loved Pistachio), but after a long hot day, the paletas de agua were so much more refreshing.

I had my first Full Tilt paleta at the first annual South Park Crank it Up Festival where they were selling popsicles out of coolers. I had exactly two dollars in my pocket and saw several people walking around with delicious-looking popsicles, which when I found them, were two dollars. Kismet. I can't remember what other flavors they had there, but I got a blackberry cinnamon cream flavor. It was very reminiscent of its Mexican counterparts. There were big chunks of blackberry and seeds that were caught in my teeth for the rest of the day, but in a delicious way.

I was so impressed that the next day I took the very willing husband and son to the store in White Center. In addition to a small menu of paletas, they have ice cream flavors both bizarre (mango chili) and mundane (vanilla). They encourage tasting the flavors, which I greatly appreciate, and although I was very full from lunch, I managed to squeeze into my belly a spoonful of perhaps the weirdest ice cream I've ever had. Based on Elvis Presley's favorite sandwich, it's called Memphis King and contains banana, peanut butter, and chocolate covered bacon bits. Individually, each one of those ingredients is delicious. And perhaps in sandwich form when the bacon is warm and the peanut butter melty, the combination of ingredients would be tasty. In ice cream form, it was just odd. The banana flavor overwhelmed everything else until the ice cream melted, leaving only the chocolate covered bacon to finish the bite. The bacon was a little too chewy and didn't taste that great with the chocolate. Overall, a very strange flavor. The Mexican Chocolate that we brought home was delightful, though. My one gripe is that the plastic container it was in shattered from the cold. Maybe use cardboard from now on...Mother Earth would appreciate it.

Not at all about Fried Chicken

2008-07-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

My two BFFs and I have a tradition wherein we go out for a fancy meal in January instead of buying each other Christmas gifts. Generally, I have plenty of funds in January for such a splurge, but this Christmas knocked me on my ass financially (because of non-fun purchases like tires for my car, a roof for the house and, the most non-fun purchase of my entire life, having my poor sweet old dog put to sleep) so we decided to dine in early February before my paycheck was otherwise allocated (sorry, Verizon, maybe next month).

The dinner is always Hallie, Robin and myself, but sometimes if the fancy strikes us, we invite others as well. This year, we invited Tammi, who loves television so much that she has two DVRs with which to record her stories. This makes me enjoy her company, well, this and her unapologetic use of the word cunnilingus in regular conversation. Hallie and I also love television, and the three of us can talk for hours about what we've seen. The conversation that night went a little like this:

Me: Hey Tammi, do you watch Project Runway?

Tammi (looking at me as though I'm totally retarded): Of course I watch Project Runway.

Me: How much do you love/hate Christian?

Tammi: He's fierce.

Hallie: Totally.

Robin (who does not watch television): Blink...Blink, Blink.

We were eating at place in Wallingford called Tilth which is one of those places that changes the menu regularly based on what's in season. Honestly, since we ate way back in the dark dreary winter, and now the sun is shining, I can't remember much about the meal. Except that there was pork belly. And lamb. But the lamb had too much other stuff on it so it wasn't lamby enough for me. Then there were some veggies too. They were probably good.

The best part of the evening (other than Tammi talking about how awesome cunnilingus is) was at the end when a very very drunk guy with Morrissey hair started yelling at one of the servers about being disrespected. Because nothing is more respectable than a drunk 80s-looking hipster. He was kicked out while his girlfriend stayed behind to try to soothe some feathers. Feathers which were promptly ruffled again when the guy smashed a couple of terracotta flower pots on the porch. Sweet.

I suppose it's right and proper that the most memorable parts of the evening involved oral sex and violence to flower pots. But it seems like if the food had been better, I would have remembered it more. Maybe I'll try again one day with a less interesting group of people on a more sedate evening. But what fun would that be?

Derailed II

2008-01-23T14:54:00.000-08:00

Andy's Diner, which I wrote about here and the husband wrote about here, has finally closed. Check out the Stranger blog wherein old-timey folk lament the passing of this dive, despite its abominably crappy food. Sure, railcar diners are neato, but ultimately, people go to restaurants for the food and the atmosphere, neither of which were pleasant at Andy's.

An almost perfect 20 minutes

2008-01-04T09:16:00.000-08:00

Consists of: (1) an agreeable baby who sits quietly in his high chair and chews on a toy while mama reads (2) a copy of an embarrassingly trashy magazine like US Weekly, preferably including an interview with Lauren or Heidi from The Hills (does Lauren continue dating himbo Brody Jenner? Do Heidi and Spencer get back together? Is Whitney really off the show?) and eats (3) some non-terrible fried chicken from the grocery store deli.

The chicken in question on this occasion came from the local Safeway, and despite all appearances, was surprisingly edible. After having spent the day under the heat lamps with the sad joe joes and other fried deli items, the chicken meat was predictably dry, but the skin was crispy, salty, and spicier than I would have anticipated. I wouldn't imagine a breast piece would be very good, given it's lack of delicious juicy fat to begin with, but I would definitely get the dark meat pieces again.

Now for what's really important...Heidi and Spencer did get back together, despite the fact that Spencer is clearly the biggest tool ever. And, did you see Heidi's boobs? She looks like a cartoon! Lauren and Brody don't continue dating, but she meets a special Frenchman in Paris. And, Whitney's still on, but they're adding a new Teen Vogue intern to spice things up. Oh, and yes, I am far too old to care about such things.

Little Chicken McNugget, Why are You so Delicious?

2007-12-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

I remember when McDonald's introduced the Chicken McNugget. I was about 10 years old, and it opened up a whole new realm of fast food for my family. Since I was so ridiculously picky and wouldn't eat hamburgers (I was also dumb), we could only go to Roy Rogers, home of perfectly seasoned, crispy and greasy fried chicken. For my parents, the introduction of the McNugget meant that the family could eat someplace else. No longer tethered to the Double R Bar Burger, my dad could finally get a Big Mac. For me, it meant that I had another fried vehicle with which to scoop up chocolate shake.

Then McDonald's had to go and screw it all up. A few years ago, they changed the recipe to "all white meat" in an effort to make the tasty chicken tidbits more healthy. This is absurd for a number of reasons. One: dark meat tastes better. Period. Two: these are breaded and deep fried pieces of reconstituted chicken. Please don't tell me that the marginally lower amount of fat resulting from eliminating dark meat from the McNugget somehow makes up for the enormous vat of oil that bathes them in a golden fried glow. Three: see reason one.

Nevertheless, I find myself drawn to the drive through to get those not-as-delicious-as-they-used-to-be McNuggets, partly because there's a McDonald's about 2 minutes from my house, and partly because the French fries are and always will be the best. Now, before you get all up on your high horse and tell me that, in fact, there are better fries out there and that I need to go to thus n such French bistro to get REAL frites, I say just simmer down there. Although I'm from Virginia, I'm no yokel, and I have had real French French fries. And yes, in an absolute sense, they are better than McDonald's. However, until Le Pichet offers fried chicken and opens a drive through window so that I can get tasty fried morsels while maintaining sanity as my 6 month old sleeps in the backseat, Mickey D's wins, hands down.

Thwarted!

2007-07-05T20:51:00.000-07:00

After having a baby mid-May, and being cooped up in our small house for several weeks, in late June, the Husband and I finally felt equipped enough to take the little tyke with us to a local restaurant. We live in a funny little neighborhood called South Park (yes, really), which is hard to describe succinctly. Low housing prices have made it a haven for artist and drug dealer alike, and prostitutes and gang bangers prowl the main drag. I've never felt particularly unsafe in my own house, but I definitely wouldn't walk the streets alone after dark.

When it comes to food, the choices in South Park are limited. There are several quite tasty Mexican restaurants including a delicious taco truck parked at the gas station down the hill from our house. There's a pizza place and a teriyaki place, neither of which I've tried. And then there's the County Line tavern. I first ventured into the County Line for a monthly neighborhood karaoke-fest before I was pregnant and sampled some of the fried bar fare along with many beers. The County Line is a dive in the truest sense of the word. Strong drinks and pull tabs are standard fare for regulars that look like they're from a David Lynch movie. You'll most assuredly catch some kind of disease if you linger too long in the bathroom.

Nevertheless, the Husband and I really needed some food that didn't come from our freezer. It didn't matter that it came from someone else's. I figured they would have fried chicken and that it would be the orange kind. I was expecting nothing fancy. The waitress took our order, then went back to cook the food herself (it was a slow day at the County Line). Just after the food arrived, as if on queue, wee baby Cooper started fussing. The Husband has created a rule that mama gets to eat first, which of course makes me very happy, but means that he often has to eat cold food. So, when the babe started crying, the husband took him for a little walk outside until he fell asleep. Meanwhile, I attacked my chicken, starting, of course, with the delicious skin off the breast---everything ok there. Then the thigh...I took one bite and, you're never going to believe this...it was STILL FROZEN!!!!!! At least this time it was fully cooked inside, not some salmonella-pink monstrosity like at Andy's Diner, but still.

The husband eventually came back in and could hardly believe this was happening again. To avoid a second leather chicken experience, I did not tell this waitress and instead had a meal of french fries and frozen corn. I think there was a roll too.

Come on, people, can I get a piece of cooked fried chicken, please?

Fancy Fried Chicken

2006-09-13T15:05:00.000-07:00

I am of the general opinion that one should not have to spend a lot of money to get a good piece of fried chicken. Chicken itself isn't expensive, nor is flour or oil. However, some of the best fried chicken I've ever had has been from the not so cheap Kingfish Cafe in Seattle and the definitely not cheap ($18) Georgia Brown's in Washington DC. That said, I have, in my search for truly great fried chicken, avoided the fancier spots in town. Perhaps because if I'm going out for an expensive meal, I would rather not order a dish that I can get much cheaper from the Shell station on the way home. The husband, however, knows no financial bounds when it comes to finding the perfect food. He therefore decided to take me to Flying Fish one recent Sunday evening, where the fried chicken has been reported to be the best in town. I, of course, will be the judge of that.

I haven't been to Flying Fish since I first moved to Seattle and was looking for a fancy restaurant to have my mom take me to when she was visiting. On that visit, I had softshell crab for the first time, and it was delightful. When the husband told me that this was his plan for my fried chicken search, I was not as thrilled as he had hoped. First of all, I told him, I'm the fried chicken lady, and I get to decide when and where I want fried chicken. Second, Flying Fish doesn't scream "down home fried chicken" to me. Third, what if I look at the menu and decide that something else, like perhaps fish, looks better to me than fried chicken? Then I'll feel obligated to order the fried chicken since that's what we'll be there for, and it had better be damn fine fried chicken, or else I'll be disappointed I'm not eating fish. Ungrateful? Perhaps, but these things can't be forced.

We decided to have an early dinner at 5, and although the restaurant was totally empty, the hostess seated us in the upstairs balcony area, which mildly annoyed me, but pleased the husband since he caught the distinctive smell of urine on the main floor as we walked in. I, luckily, was suffering from allergies and could smell nothing. I avoided looking at the entrée portion of the menu so as not to torture myself with fish I wasn’t allowed to have. Instead, I focused on the appetizers and decided to have the field greens salad with gorgonzola croutons, blueberries, and a vinaigrette. The husband was taken with a pickled watermelon and fried proscuitto dish and wanted to ask the waiter about it.

Strike one for the waiter came before he even opened his mouth simply because he had a ponytail. Now, I realize that this is completely petty and unfair, and one should really not judge a book by it’s cover, but a ponytail? It’s 2006, and the grunge phenomenon is long dead. Please, gentlemen, for the love of god, get a haircut. Strike two came after the husband asked about the watermelon dish. Turns out, the pickled watermelon and fried prosciutto was tossed with mint and cilantro. Sadly, the husband hates cilantro desperately. It tastes like soap to him, and he picks it off of anything it comes on, which these days is virtually everything. When ponytail waiter saw poor little husband’s face fall at the utterance of the c-word, and after the husband explained that he really didn’t like cilantro, ponytail waiter said something like, “Well, we really do it right here, not like other places where they just use way too much. That’s what makes it so overpowering.” Sans attitude, this statement may not have pissed me off. It’s true that some places may use way too much cilantro, and it can overpower other flavors. Unfortunately, ponytail waiter was also snooty and explained this to us as though we were imbeciles. Nevertheless, the husband decided to order the watermelon dish, because fried proscuitto is simply too delicious for him to pass up.

Snooty ponytail waiter aside, what’s really important is the food, and the appetizers were delightful. The gorgonzola croutons on my salad were in fact breaded and fried chunks of cheese, the blueberries were sweet, and the vinaigrette was light. The watermelon was even better. I’m not sure what it was pickled in, but the fruit was sweet, the proscuitto crispy, and the mint and cilantro herby (although the husband did pick off the cilantro).

The chicken took a very long time once the appetizer plates were cleared, but once it arrived at the table, I understood why…it’s oven fried, not pan fried. It looked quite good, aside from the very black burned bits. The crust was made of something other than flour, perhaps panko or cornmeal, and was very flaky. It was served with mashed potatoes that both looked and tasted like butter and chard that was too bitter for my taste. The chicken, while perfectly cooked, was unfortunately very bland and greasy. The breading seemed unsalted, a crime as far as I’m concerned, and although I’m sure the chicken was brined to achieve it’s amazing tenderness, none of that salt remained.

I’m not sure if I was disappointed in the chicken because I set myself up to be or because it wasn’t that good. I’m leaning toward option two. Flying Fish is a well-respected restaurant with delicious fish, and perhaps that’s what they should stick to. Just leave the fried chicken for those who know what to do with it.

Derailed

2006-06-29T16:26:00.000-07:00

My husband is a foodie. But he's not the kind of foodie that only likes fancy food artfully arranged on the plate. He's more a greasy spoon kind of guy. He loves the restaurants that the rest of us shy away from--the scary ones where maybe you saw one too many rats, or the waitress's fingers in the food, or questionable hand-washing by the cooks in the bathroom. These are his dives. I don't want to sound like a food-prude, though. I've had some great meals in some of these scary places. Unfortunately, however, I've also had some truly repulsive food.

Andy's Diner in south Seattle is truly a landmark. It's several railroad cars joined together to create a bizzare maze-like atmosphere. The husband had been wanting to check it out for quite some time, so when he got a raise, I took him there as a surprise. When we arrived, everything looked about how we expected--a little grimy, but not disgusting. We were seated in one of the fancier cars with curtains on the windows and old photographs on the wall. The menu was typical diner grub--sandwiches, salads, dinners with your choice of potato. The husband ordered the prime rib (turned out to be not so prime, if you know what I mean), and I of course, ordered the fried chicken. Both of us wondered after I ordered whether it would be that orangish fried chicken that you get in diners sometimes, and we speculated about what causes that color. As far as I know, orange only occurs in nature in fruit form, and definitely should not be associated with poultry.

Of course it was orange...and salty. I started with the drumstick, as is my habit, and it was passable, but probably ranked in the bottom quarter of all the fried chicken I've ever had. Then I started on the breast. After eating the skin off it, I cut into it and encountered something not quite bone-hard, but definitely not flesh-soft. Turns out, it was raw and still frozen in the middle. Yes, that's right, still frozen. Now, I never expected Andy's Diner to have fresh chicken that was prepared lovingly every morning, but I did expect that they would know how to adequately cook frozen food, particularly since that's what makes up the bulk of their menu. So, we waited a while for the waitress to come by and ask if everything is ok. Here's how that conversation went:

Waitress: How's everything?

Me: Well, my chicken is raw and still frozen in the middle.

Waitress: Huh.

Me: Could I possibly get another piece?

Waitress: Yeah, I'll talk to the cook.

About 5 minutes later, she returned with something that resembled shoe leather and set it in front of me before quickly walking away. Turns out, the cook re-fried THE SAME PIECE OF CHICKEN! I'm no gourmet or anything, but I've been to a lot of restaurants in my day and have never been presented with something so inedible. If you saw it lying on the sidewalk and had to guess what it was, chicken would probably be your 87th or so guess.

So eventually waitress returned to take our plates away, mine still burdened with leather-bird. She asked how everything was, and here's how that conversation went:

Waitress: How was everthing?

Me: Well, I'm a little surprised you brought me the same piece of chicken. I thought I would be getting a new piece. This one is pretty inedible.

Waitress (looking stumped): Well, what do you want? Do you want me to compromise your meal?

Me (with barely-maintained straight face): That would be great.

She left to remove the offending chicken dinner from the bill, and husband and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. Then we went to Krispy Kreme. At least the compromised meal ended on a happy food note.

Pechugas de Pollo

2006-05-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

When I was in graduate school, my research took me to the strange and beautiful northern reaches of Chihuahua, the wild west of Mexico. The people there talk a little slower, have an accent that city-folk make fun of, and believe in God, ranching, and farming, in that order. They are an interesting mix of Mexican Catholics, American Mormons, and German Mennonites. I'm not a religious person and have been to church only a handful of times throughout my life, so all religions seem a little foreign to me, but this mix of three very odd (to me) religions in one small corner of the world was bizarre. The Catholics, I at least vaguely understood. My best friend as a kid was Catholic, and I've been to Catholic weddings, so I've got some foothold there. Sadly, everything I know about Mormonism comes from that season of The Real World with the Mormon girl who got kicked out of BYU for appearing on the show, and the new show Big Love. Don't worry, I fully realize that TV isn't real, and real Mormons are probably nothing like that evil Nikki expertly played by Chloe Sevigny. But at least I've had some kind of exposure. The Mennonites, on the other hand, were something totally new. They're somewhat like the Amish, except they drive pick-up trucks and make stinky cheese. While the Mormons and Mexicans were nothing but kind, the Mennonites were slightly menacing. In line at the grocery store, the women, clad in bonnets, long-sleeved dresses, and uncomfortable-looking shoes, would glare at me as though the fear of god were a laser coming straight from their eyeballs and the depth to which the laser would penetrate my soul was directly proportional to the ire in their eyes. How did they know I never went to church? It must have been the sandals...oh, and the "I Heart Satan" t-shirt.

During one such trip to the grocery store, I was charged with buying ingredients for fried chicken. I was staying in a house with several other grad students, and we cooked meals together, each person taking turns to make something. I had only a vague idea how to make it, since most of the fried chicken I had eaten at that point came in a box from Roy Rogers. But, I was equipped with a list (in English) from that night's chef that included boneless skinless chicken breasts, eggs, and corn flakes. Most of the other graduate students spoke even less than I did, so I was often forced to do the things that required communication with the locals--buying groceries, asking directions, saying hi to the neighbors. However, my college Spanish teacher never taught us "chicken breasts," an unfortunate oversight. The grocery stores in rural Mexico are not like those in the US. The meat isn't in perfectly portioned and cellophaned styrofoam containers. It's behind the butcher case, and you have to order everything in kilos. Thankfully, I had a pretty good grasp of the metric system, but when I went to the butcher, I saw nothing behind the glass that looked like chicken breasts, boneless or otherwise. They had whole chickens and many different cuts of beef, but no breasts. Unfortunately, I didn't really realize that I couldn't say "chicken breasts" before I started talking. (This happened once before when I was trying to buy ice, couldn't remember how to say it, and instead said, "es como agua pero muy, muy frio." Understandably, I left without ice that time.) I really should have given myself some time to think it out. Instead I started talking about "pollo sin huesos" and "pollo en partes." Thankfully, before my next strategy of pointing to my own breasts and saying something like "el parte de pollo que esta aqui," the lovely butcher figured out what I was saying and found me some boneless skinless chicken breasts. Thank god he wasn't a Mennonite.

Roy Rogers Rules!

2006-04-27T13:06:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Virginia, and while I like to pretend this makes me a Southerner, it's simply not true. My part of Virginia is in the north, right next to DC, and it's populated with politicians, bureaucrats, and all manner of Yankees. No one in northern Virginia says "y'all" and if they do, the presumption is that they're a hillbilly or some forgotton apointee from the Clinton administration, or both. My parents are from the midwest (despite years of living in the DC area, my father still says "Warshington"), and that culinary tradition is what I grew up with--casseroles, roasts, and the occasional boxed dinner. Now, I don't mean to disparage my mom's cooking. She makes the best roast turkey and stuffing EVER, and can replicate any dish she eats in a restaurant ("Hmm, I taste...oregano, turmeric, butter, and parmesan cheese"), usually making it even better. But, she never made fried chicken.

When I was a kid, my mom traveled relatively frequently for work, leaving my dad to feed my brother and me. Now, Dad will promptly admit that he's no chef. His job was to stay out of the way while mom was cooking, and clean up when she was done. So, when forced to find food for two youngsters, he generally resorted to one of three options: pancakes, grilled cheese, or a trip to a delighful little fast food joint that used to dot the northern Virginia landscape--Roy Rogers. I was a ridiculously picky eater as a young person. In fact, I'm amazed my parents didn't just hook me up to an IV and be done with it. I hated hamburgers, tacos, and pizza, so most kid-friendly dining establisments were not realistic options. Roy Rogers presented us with the best of all possible worlds because it had the Double R Bar Burger for my dad and delicious fried chicken for me. I always ordered a box of chicken (leg and breast) with fries and a chocolate shake. The leg was my favorite part of the meal. The proportion of juicy dark meat to crispy skin was perfect. The breast was a little too meaty and lean for my taste, and I often peeled off the greasy skin to eat by itself.

I loved Roy Rogers diligently and exclusively my entire childhood, and then something dismal happened. Roy Rogers sold out to Hardees my senior year of high school. This was a real blow since my dad hated Hardees with a passion rarely directed at fast food restaurants. Even though I hear they kept the fried chicken on the menu, my dad's Double R Bar Burger was gone. I moved to New Mexico for college shortly after the great betrayal, and I never had that fried chicken again. Although, I hear that due to a great outcry from loyalists like myself, Hardees changed all the Roy Rogers back. Smart move.

In New Mexico, my fried chicken habit was replaced with green chile stew and tacos. My food horizons were broadened widely through exposure to a cuisine so different from what I had ever had before. Mexican food in my house meant spice envelope ground beef in hard taco shells or a trip to Chi Chi's for special events (which I, of course, hated). New Mexican food is different, though. It's sometimes so spicy you want to die, but not without one last bite. I started eating tacos with meat other than chicken, piling on the spicy salsas, ordering chile rellenos in the hope that they would make me sweat, and sopping up all the leftover juices with a sopaipilla. With so many new food avenues open to me, my first food love was pushed to the sidelines.

Seattle has been a similar experience. I've spent most of my food time in Seattle eating fresh fish, Northwest fusion, Hong Kong delicacies thanks to my husband, and, now that I live in South Park, carnitas and carne asada. But now, nostalgia is taking back to my first love. Lately, I've been ordering fried chicken at every diner I see--often with disatrous effects (just wait until I write about Andy's Diner), in an attempt to reconnect with the food that brought me so much joy as a kid. Southern cooking seems to be one of the next big things in Seattle restaurants. There are already several well-established places with good fried chicken (if you have not yet been to Kingfish, you should be smacked), and more opening all the time. So now seems as good a time as any to hop on the Southern haywagon and find the greasiest, crispiest, most delicious fried chicken like Roy Rogers used to make.