Man does not live on fried chicken alone, unless that man is me.
My obsession with fried chicken is a recent phenomenon - it's come about within the last year, I would say. Why it has overtaken my soul, I cannot say, but overtaken it it has. We don't choose our beliefs; our beliefs choose us. We don't choose fried chicken; fried chicken chooses us.
Last Saturday, March 12, I ventured to Bobwhite Counter, which according to Eater, has the best new fried chicken in the city. I am wary of superlative statements, especially when it comes to fried chicken. I believe that food writers enjoy the idea of fried chicken and enjoy showering praise and exclamations on places that may be pretty good or fine, but certainly not worthy of the adulation they seem to get.
Bobwhite Counter is indeed a lunch counter, with some hightop tables. A relaxed place to perhaps read Moby Dick and eat fried chicken. But just how is this fried chicken?
I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. The meat was moist (but not too moist) and flavorful. The skin had a flavorful batter, but the chicken had not been fried to order; it was at room temperature, so not particularly crispy. But even so, this was a flavorful and satisfying fried chicken. It's so rare that I feel satisfied with fried chicken, but indeed I was satisfied at Bobwhite.
How do they do it? They brine the bird in sweet tea, and they fry it in a pressure cooker.
The mac and cheese was good, not exemplary. The biscuits were quite good, and even better with a little bit of honey.
I will happily go back here to enjoy one of the best fried chickens I've had in New York (my report on my favorite fried chicken EVER - consumed in Baton Rouge - is still to follow)