Xmastime Restaurant Review: The Pies N Thighs Chicken Biscuit

Yesterday being Mickey Mantle's birthday got me thinking of the many similarities there are between The Mick and me. For one, his birthday is 10/20, meaning the date is double the month just as my own 7/14 is. Fucking spooky, right? And you know how obsessed I am with 8/16.  Even the Jews got into the act back in the day, when on 12/24 a Jewish chick with the most gullible husband in the world ("it was God, he got me drunk!") started to go into labor to pop out a certain little shit that would one day give us Jerry Falwell, pedophilia and, worse, Catholicism.

Of course the one negative is 11/22 in Dallas when that whore Jackie O. couldn't bother to take a bullet for her husband (it's called a wedding vow, people...to love and PROTECT!!!...what is with wives - Jackie, Yoko...bullets are chivalrous? Repelled by estrogen? Wtf?) Although on that same day C.S. Lewis died, so losing JFK's lady-killing coolness was at least equaled out by the loss of the dystopian hero of Nerd-dom.

Also, The Mick and I both played center field. Though to be honest, it's only fair that I point out Mickey played almost 2500 games for the most storied franchise in sports history and was elected to the Hall of Fame while being considered one of the greatest ballplayers ever, while I got pulled from center field in the middle of an inning, so. 

And to keep the "Oh my God, this is getting creepy they're so alike!!!!" going, Mickey was a notorious boozehound who plowed through half the women in the country, while I am notorious for plowing a truckload of vodka into women and dragging them back to my loft, dead or alive  banging a girl in the Dairy Queen bathroom.

But what really got me thinking about The Mick's birthday is I decided to finally try Pies N Thighs' famous chicken biscuit, which I've been drooling over for awhile now since reading it was named "Best Sandwich in New York City," and, just like the Mick, is 1) white  2) All-American  3) known to make grown men cry.

I hadn't been to Pies N Thighs since it re-opened on South 4th Street after closing down for two years; I went once back when it was on Kent Ave, but mostly from that I remember sitting outide next to the dumpster to eat, so I was very pleased to walk in and be hit with an indrebly distintive smell that even an amateur shnozz can discern to bea perfect mix of hot biscuits, fried batter and pies cooling on a windowsill.

I walk in and right away the waitress is on me, and I tell her I know what I want: the chicken biscuit. The next 60 seconds goes like this:

XMASTIME: can I have it without the sauce?
HER: without the honey butter and hot sauce? Really?
Well....is it more honey than butter, or more butter?
Oh, it's definately a lot of sweet, sweet honey. (places hand on table and leans over. Helly, Titty.)
Ahhhh...okay, sure...keep the honey butter on.
How bout the hot sauce? Camon, you gotta have the hot sauce.
Oh, I dunno...I don't really like hot sauce.
Well, it's really vinegar-y. It's not TOO hot. But yeah, (Leans over more. Makes sure I'm looking right down her shirt) it's hot.
Ahhhh...ummm....not TOO hot?
Oh, it's hot. JUST hot enough. You can handle it. (still peeping.)
Hey, you know what, ahhhhh, sure...hot sauce too.
Great! (straightens up, spins around and heads back to place order.)

After about 30 seconds the blood goes back to my head and I become slightly chagrined that my order has been changed thanks to some Jedi Boob Trick, so I say "fuck this!" and start to rise up to go tell her NO honey butter and NO hot sauce when she senses I'm standing up and spins back around to face me from 20 feet away. Like Pecos Bill about to draw his six-shooter she cocks her eyebrows up as if to say "are you fucking kidding me?" I freeze, crouched over my chair, and slowly her eyes drop down to her chest, pulling my ass back down to my seat as if attached to her eyelids. Fuck!

The wait was long. I feel like twenty minutes is too long for such a simple order. I understand I'd be suspicious if it came back out in thirty seconds, but still, twenty minutes feels long. Luckily, and I must give them credit here, the radio was tuned to Little Steven's Underground Garage, so at least I got to hear shit like Psychotic Reaction and the Dave Clark Five, which is a huge improvement over the last "authentic-looking, roadside Southern dive" diner I went to, Union Picnic, who assualted the senses with some fucking techno Williamsburtg house music crap. Ugh. You can't try to sell me on "Mama's real collards" to the sounds of some Japanese import-only Yeah Yeah Yeahs instrumental b-side.

Finally it came, and just in picking it up I could tell this was the best biscuit I've ever fucking had. Just the right feel of dusty grease, and a crispy shell that yields into a soft pillow of fluffy inside. I immediately thanked the waitress for using her titties to convince me to go with the butter/hot sauce. This is the best biscuit I've ever had (although I wouldn't mind a taste-off with Bojangles.)

The chicken was..I don't wanna say "disappointing," but it was completely overshadowed by the biscuit. It wasn't very thick, plus it was scalding hot so instead of enjoying it I just tried to get through it. I can't say I liked the chicken more than on the wildly surprisingly good KFC Double Down. To my own shock I found myself soaking up all the butter and hot sauce that had pooled onto my plate.

Since I'm planning on losing 50lbs by Christmas I can't be hitting this joint every day, but next time I'll get the fried chicken and biscuits box. Maybe some butter/hot sauce on the side. Of course, that waitress will prolly "convince" me to get sliced tofu doo-doo nuggets instead, so what the fuck do I know.

Here's a picture of a dog watching some guy piss into a paper bag as I'm walking in. Sweet.