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Thursday, November 10, 2011

Fried Chicken Rantings

Tuesday, the 8th day of November, was an absolutely beautiful fall day.  Indeed, the weather has been absolutely immaculate the past several days.  The sky has had a freshness, a succulence, which jesus himself would be jealous of.

Tuesday, the 8th day of November, was a day I had off from work, due to a so-called "election" day.  I spent the day doing various things and people, I ate a pumpkin donut from Doughnut Plant, walked across the Williamsburg Bridge, and arrived early at a restaurant where I was to meet some friends for fried chicken. I sat on a bench outside the restaurant, which is entitled Egg, waiting for my dining companions, enjoying the fading light.  It was basically a perfect moment.

Was the friend chicken perfect? This is something I have given much thought to.  No, the fried chicken was not perfect.  Was it good?  Yes, it was good.  How good was it? I'm not sure.

I think about fried chicken a lot, and sometimes I feel as if people are more attracted to the idea of fried chicken than actual fried chicken.  You read a lot on the food blogosphere about fried chicken, and Egg is often highly rated.  A pretty solid rant by Peter Meehan in the times a few years ago got me excited.  He mentions how a "Southern-born"friend wolfed down the chicken and then came back the following evening with all of his Johnny Rebs.  Well, I'll be darned: if real Southerners like it that much, it must be good, it must be authentic.

I don't want to say I didn't like the fried chicken at Egg.  I did enjoy it - to a degree. It was properly salted, I thought, which is extremely important.  It wasn't too greasy.  The meet was pretty juicy and tender.  But, I don't know, it just wasn't incredible.  There's a large part of me that wants to eat fried chicken and just be bowled over.  I want to say "this is the greatest fried chicken I've ever had," and I want to then roll over and die because it's so good.

I am not giving up on eating fried chicken.  But I think the search for the perfect fried chicken is like the search for the meaning of life: no such thing exists.