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The all-American
dish is much more than Colonel Sanders. Whether in L.A. or Atlanta, it’s the
essential soul food.

It is a Sunday
rite in my hometown of LaGrange, GA. Church lets out and you head to
Big Chic, our local fried chicken shop. Orders are taken from a simple walk-up
counter, and hungry Baptists sigh happily as they wait for red-check boxes of
sizzling, crispy goodness for afternoon supper. The car ride home is
sanctifying as the fried, salty aroma fills the air like a spirit.

America’s
sweetheart dish is apple pie, but its savory counterpart is most certainly
fried chicken. A piping-hot platter of floured-and-fried chicken is the Bruce
Springsteen of foods. Golden breading, flavor-packed skin, and
fall-off-the-bone meat—this is the workingman’s filet mignon. Brought over by
British pilgrims, and seasoned to higher stature by African American cooks in
the Deep South, fried chicken has its origin in country kitchens. But to say
refined gourmands don’t relish a steaming bowl of drumsticks is foolish.

If fried chicken
came with celebrity status, Atlanta chef and
James Beard award nominee Linton Hopkins would be an A-lister. His Restaurant
Eugene
in Buckhead is quietly becoming a foodie pilgrimage site for the
Sunday-only fried chicken entrée—if not for the taste, for its nod to history.
When Hopkins decided to open his flagship café on Sundays, he wanted to do
something special. His answer? Using the oldest fried chicken recipe on record:
Mary Randolph’s prerefrigeration formula, catalogued in the 1824 edition of the
cookbook The Virginia House-Wife.

“We doctor up
our skillet with bacon bits, lard, peanut oil, and some Benton’s country ham
trimmings,” Hopkins says. “Just like a southern cook would have done. What can
I say, I’m a geek.”

From coast to
coast, fried chicken is a craving that has withstood centuries of supperdom,
never waning in the country’s tastes, while simultaneously allowing room for
creative evolution. In Los Angeles, the
popular Roscoe’s is a pioneer of the blended-meal tradition of chicken and waffles. (One fan is
Larry King, who once showed up with a camera crew and Snoop Dogg.) And in Nashville, Prince’s
Hot Chicken
wins the fear-factor category with a cayenne concoction (born
from an angry lover’s quarrel) that will make you sweat—then want another bite.

As our nation’s
dish of choice, fried chicken outpaces the burger and out-souls the pizza pie.
Whether made by small-town cooks or big-city chefs, whether eaten minutes after
frying or as chilled leftovers from the cooler, this one dish, above all, holds
a wistful and enduring draw: its ability to comfort.

America's Best Fried Chicken

The all-American
dish is much more than Colonel Sanders. Whether in L.A. or Atlanta, it’s the
essential soul food.

It is a Sunday
rite in my hometown of LaGrange, GA. Church lets out and you head to
Big Chic, our local fried chicken shop. Orders are taken from a simple walk-up
counter, and hungry Baptists sigh happily as they wait for red-check boxes of
sizzling, crispy goodness for afternoon supper. The car ride home is
sanctifying as the fried, salty aroma fills the air like a spirit.

America’s
sweetheart dish is apple pie, but its savory counterpart is most certainly
fried chicken. A piping-hot platter of floured-and-fried chicken is the Bruce
Springsteen of foods. Golden breading, flavor-packed skin, and
fall-off-the-bone meat—this is the workingman’s filet mignon. Brought over by
British pilgrims, and seasoned to higher stature by African American cooks in
the Deep South, fried chicken has its origin in country kitchens. But to say
refined gourmands don’t relish a steaming bowl of drumsticks is foolish.

If fried chicken
came with celebrity status, Atlanta chef and
James Beard award nominee Linton Hopkins would be an A-lister. His Restaurant
Eugene
in Buckhead is quietly becoming a foodie pilgrimage site for the
Sunday-only fried chicken entrée—if not for the taste, for its nod to history.
When Hopkins decided to open his flagship café on Sundays, he wanted to do
something special. His answer? Using the oldest fried chicken recipe on record:
Mary Randolph’s prerefrigeration formula, catalogued in the 1824 edition of the
cookbook The Virginia House-Wife.

“We doctor up
our skillet with bacon bits, lard, peanut oil, and some Benton’s country ham
trimmings,” Hopkins says. “Just like a southern cook would have done. What can
I say, I’m a geek.”

From coast to
coast, fried chicken is a craving that has withstood centuries of supperdom,
never waning in the country’s tastes, while simultaneously allowing room for
creative evolution. In Los Angeles, the
popular Roscoe’s is a pioneer of the blended-meal tradition of chicken and waffles. (One fan is
Larry King, who once showed up with a camera crew and Snoop Dogg.) And in Nashville, Prince’s
Hot Chicken
wins the fear-factor category with a cayenne concoction (born
from an angry lover’s quarrel) that will make you sweat—then want another bite.

As our nation’s
dish of choice, fried chicken outpaces the burger and out-souls the pizza pie.
Whether made by small-town cooks or big-city chefs, whether eaten minutes after
frying or as chilled leftovers from the cooler, this one dish, above all, holds
a wistful and enduring draw: its ability to comfort.

Sarah Lemoncelli [1] [1] http://www.sarahlemoncelli.com

America's Best Fried Chicken

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