Fried Chicken Friday

I’ll tell you whose fried chicken isn’t bad, and you’ll be surprised: Kroger. Yes, the grocery store. When I was living in Oxford, MS I got into a routine wherein every Sunday morning I’d head down to the Kroger. They had a whole separate dining joint inside, complete with the same 800-lb black women who served up the goods at my college dining hall. “One meat per trip baby, you gotta come back for some more.” I’d stroll in, grab a magazine from the magazine section, walk over and order the fried chicken with mashed potatoes. Scarf the shit down, then put the magazine back so I didn’t have to pay for it; the only time I’ve left magazine pages stuck together with a substance that could not potentially create life.

This would be ten years ago, and it was the first time I began noticing how huge the pieces of chicken were becoming. Have you seen these things? What have they been doing to these chickens? I buy a breast nowadays, it looks like a fucking boxing glove. Are they pumping them full of steroids? Does the chicken industry hope that we think well, the chickens have just evolved that way; perhaps they’ve been doing free-weights? Maybe someday chickens will be 8 feet tall and rule the Earth, or at least the NBA. Ohoh, I think I just wrote an episode of “ER.” (TV GUIDE: Abby’s mother makes her despondent; doctors suspect a father of abuse; a Boeing 747 flown by 8-foot tall chickens crashes, flooding the ER with victims; Mars crashes into Neptune and Carter needs to fly out there to save the universe from every disease ever known to mankind, except of course sickle cell.) Obviously the industry has engineered this. But why? Hey, I’m a guy who generally prefers anything to be upgraded from “medium” to “super-sized.” Well, other than a woman’s Golden Palace of the Himalayas. Two-gallon Coke? Sure. Waffles the size of a spare tire? Get me the syrup wheelbarrow. And we all know how I feel about huge, fake, engineered breasts – in a word, yes. yes. (when talking breasts, everything needs to be said in twos. twos.)

But it’s no fun frying these things, cause you bust your ass frying the outside to perfection, you look at it like ooooooooooooooh, mama!...the perfect golden-brown crust. But then you check the inside, and you might as well slice your forearm open, it’s the same thing – blood running, raw flesh, a chip put in by the state to warn when you’re within 500 feet of any Cub Scout meeting. So now, after having an emotional breakdown over getting your crust perfect, you’ve gotta put the thing in the goddam oven to let it cook inside. Which feels like cheating. Not impressive in front of any crowd you’re cooking for. To people who have never fried chicken, frying a chicken is a mystery, an impressive feat with only a flame and some animal fat. Like Kirstie Alley getting a Brazilian. But they see you taking the chicken and sticking it in the oven, then they’re like “well...I can do that, what’s the big deal?” Not good.

But Kroger’s was really good – and their mashed potatoes were real, with as much pepper-loaded gravy as you wanted, sluicing through the potatoes inside the styrofoam tray they gave you. The crust on the chicken was perfect every time, crispy and a lot of it. Seems like it was double-battered, now that I look back on it. One of those crusts that if you wanted you could peel off as one whole piece, then combine with other crusts to create a table centerpiece – maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, but a centerpiece made of chicken skins made to resemble LaGuardia Airport seems like it would be amazing, no? I was gonna be racist here and say you could take the fried chicken skins and construct a huge bottle of orange soda, but instead I took the high road, thank you very much. I can’t say there was anything very UNIQUE to the chicken, but every Sunday morning it was right on time. Big. Juicy. Tons of skin. Hold up...have I already made a Kirstie Alley joke in this post? Dammit!

And the glory of it being the price. Especially considering hell, even I could barely finish, the portions were huge.

Chicken/potatoes: $2.35
Barrel of iced tea: $1.00
Magazine: $0.00

$3.35, incredibly satisfying meal. So next time you’re in a big grocery store, don’t turn your nose up at their fried chicken, it’s prolly pretty good, inexpensive, and still serviceable if not as hot as it once was. Hold up...have I already made a Kirstie Alley joke in this post? Fuck!