November 13, 2009

A Tragedy Of Glassware

I’m not embarrassed to tell you wonderful Internet people that I have a typewriter. I am, however, slightly embarrassed to tell you about what I just did with it.

In order to iron out the kinks in a script I’m working on, I pulled out my Smith-Corona to try to bang my thoughts out on paper. It’s a manual typewriter, and so requires quite a lot of force to put letters on paper. When I work up a head of steam I often feel like a jazz pianist, his fingers ranging across the board, leaping into the air and then plunging down hard before moving swiftly onto the next key. Apparently my little writing exercise was going well, because I my hands flew fast and powerfully. So powerfully that the typewriter, as it sometimes does, began to drift sideways on the table, requiring regular adjustment.

What I didn’t notice was that everything else on the table was drifting too. And how could I? I was caught up in the moment, wrapped in the thrill of creation, utterly insensible from marveling at my own skill. (It’s a heady feeling!) I didn’t notice, as I pounded key after key, that my French press was ambling slightly northward with every character. (I’m talking about my big French press, the 4 cup one, not the little personal guy.) I didn’t notice the table shaking, and I swear I didn’t see the piece of coffee equipment move, but it must have. I know that because, in between words, staring at the line where I had just accidentally pushed the space bar before the D key, turning “good” into “goo d,” I noticed my French press doing a swan dive off the table. It seemed to hang in the air for about six seconds, during which I had time to think the following:

“Oh Gosh. That’s unlikely. I suppose it’s going to break now, and I’ll have to buy another one. They cost $40. This reminds me of that story my brother told me, about the girl who was holding two of them and smashed them both at the same time by hugging someone. I can’t believe I broke my French press with my typewriter. This is a problem only I would have.” THUD. “Oh! It didn’t break!”

Having tipped face forward, it seems to have landed on the plastic nub at the top of the plunger, sparing the glass the force of impact. Truly, it was typographicaffeinated miracle. Having been spared by the fates, I moved all the other glassware to the middle of the table, exhaled, and went back to work.

Five minutes later a small glass shattered onto the chair next to me, propelled by the same force that had almost doomed my coffemaker. This is why writers should only be allowed plastic cups.

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November 11, 2009

Stage II: Foul-Fowl Flies Foul

Battle with the hot chicken project was joined again this weekend, and ours was not the only unit at the head of the charge. (Military metaphor will be dropped forthwith.) A Chinatown friend of mine had been inspired by Esquire to brine his meat in a mixture of Coca-Cola, Worcestershire and Tabasco, a bizarre experiment that would sound repulsive if it weren’t also tantalizing. I, meanwhile, pressed on where I left off last time, attempting to prove my mother’s theory that if I just put enough fucking pepper in the flour, my mouth would be beset by wonderful and terrible sensation.

Continued frustration was my result. My third test-fry, I have yet to replicate the crispy perfection of my first haphazard trial. I’ve visited a different butcher each time, and the second two sold me much larger pieces of chicken than I used that first Wednesday. That may have some bearing, but it is also possible that fried food suffers when overly intellectualized, that the scientific façade of my endeavor is the trouble. (It’s well known that the second time Ben Franklin tried trapping lightning in a bottle, his kite came back greasy and undercooked.)

But crunch and moistness are matters of technique. They will improve in time. The real question is, was it hot?

No, and damn it, it wasn’t for lack of trying. My breading was about 1/2 flour, 1/2 cayenne (with a little salt, pepper and dried mustard for flavor), a finger dipped in the mixture came back burning. Simply put, this should have been spicy—if not Agent Orange spicy, then at least hotter than it was with a tenth that much cayenne. It made no difference at all, and I think the red cloud that formed at the bottom of my oil points to the cause. Like a buttermilk brine—so promising when breaded, so disappointing when dropped in the pan—the cayenne came off in the oil. The chicken’s flavor was commendable, but damn it people, this stuff is supposed to hurt your face. Thankfully, I was able to prepare a few teaspoons of cayenne paste, which acted as a brutally spicy failsafe.

The failure of highly seasoned breading leaves me with two paths to follow. The first is to refine the paste I’m using, to help it stick better and coat more evenly. (A recent New York Times travel article claims a similar rub is actually how they do it at Prince’s.) The second is to work on brining my meat—not in buttermilk, but in a salt brine steeped in peppers.

Despite the crushing disappointment, I’m enjoying the work because, at least based on the research I’ve done, this is a largely unexplored field. Nashville loves hot chicken, but from the recipes available online, nobody knows anything about it. (And the ones that do know aren’t willing to share.) It’s nice to be on the cutting edge, even if it’s just of cholesterol.

How did the Coca-Cola fried chicken turn out? I only tasted it the next day, but it was nothing to scoff at. The color was nice, and the meat was very moist. My friends who cooked it assured me that, when fresh, it had been “good.” But the soda had made it sweet, and that is not my goal. My quest is for cayenne catharsis. I’ll let you know when I find it.

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November 9, 2009

On Love And Farting

Butternut squash—fuck off. It’s May again.

Well, not really. But it was 71 degrees in New York today, and the temperature provided a much needed timewarp to six months ago or six months from now. It is a change of perspective worth embracing. Consider it a temporary lift of an escalating siege: one that threatens to keep us shut in our apartments until March at the least.

So while the weather holds, behave like it’s May. Forgo huddling around a simmering stew for barbecue on the roof. If you are a smoker, spend three days smoking not to warm your chest, but because your skin is warm. And anyone gearing up for a relationship, take the opportunity for a Spring fling—born from an excess of joy imbued by an excess of sun—instead of December’s typical desperate search for body heat. For now sex can be more than just a hot water bottle.

For lunch yesterday I grabbed a bacon cheeseburger from the deli on First Ave and Tenth. I’ve been eating these for about a year, since they were recommended by a bartender at International for having a “better than average bacon cheeseburger.” (Anyone who’s been reading this for a while knows that better-than-average is as small a target as I aim for.) I strolled there in short sleeves, but with a sweater in my bag. Last Tuesday, in the midst of a frigid shower, the burger alone cost $6. Yesterday, for the same price, they threw in a better-than-average ginger ale and better-than-average French fries, I suppose in celebration of the sunshine.

I toted my bounty to Stuyvesant Square, which is remarkably empty on the nicest afternoons, and encamped on a bench next to an old lady. It was 3 o’clock. I scarfed for fifteen minutes, read for six, and napped for two. When I woke the sun had gone, and I was shivering in the shade, a reminder that summer’s cameos are even shorter than the season itself. I put my sunglasses back on anyway. Around then, the old lady farted.

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November 2, 2009

An Update Nobody Wanted

The dishwasher cycle continues! And by cycle I mean not the beautiful fill/wash/rinse/dry that used to hum pleasantly beneath my sink (nearly typed “hump leasantly.” I wonder who Leasantly is.), but the grind of hope and failure that characterize the efforts of an untrained home handy-person. My (meaningless) troubles have not resolved themselves as speedily as I suggested the last time I whined. Instead, I have descended into dank pit of bafflement, a condition alleviated not at all by my repeated querying of the wisdom of our fair Internet. The following things are not the problem, and attempting to remedy them has remedied nothing at all:

  • The filter
  • The soap dispenser door
  • The brand of detergent
  • The style of detergent
  • The spray arms
  • The water temperature
  • The way I’m loading the top rack
  • The way I’m loading the bottom rack
  • The amount of vinegar I’ve run through the machine

Don’t think that was a very funny list? Well, neither do I. Here are some other things that are not funny:

  • The amount of time I’ve spent in yellow gloves this week
  • The number of beverages I’ve enjoyed from dirty glasses
  • My increased tolerance for grimy forks
  • The disgust with which my friends last night touched the silverware left in my contraption after one of my several experiments in using it to actually clean dishes

So after a week’s frustration, off and on, I think I may have finally found the trouble. Today, in violation of every fiber of respect I have for my appliances, I opened my machine mid-cycle. I expected a flood of water onto my battered wood floor, and was greeted by a host of very dry dishes.

There is almost no water flowing into my dishwasher at all.

Anyone who has ever tried to have his plates dry-cleaned understands why a lack of water would be problematic. The dryness is apparently (according to the ever suggestive Internet) resultant from a busted tube whose name is something along the lines of “input-valve-pump.” This is a part that can be ordered online, delivered to one’s door, and replaced easily by anyone who is not an idiot.

Those of you who have read my blog before know that I am, if nothing else, an idiot. I’m calling my super today; I expect he will have fixed the problem by New Year’s. Whether your care or not, I’ll probably keep you posted.

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November 1, 2009

Why Last Night Sucked (For You)

As New York City’s premier expert on “fun,” people often ask me for advice on planning their weekends. My tips seldom amount to more than “Greasy food and orgasms!” which may or may not be helpful, I’m not sure. But since last night was Halloween, I think it’s time to give some serious thought to how to have fun.

Halloween is a tricky beast. Like Valentine’s Day or New Year’s, it’s a Holiday Where You’re Supposed To Have Fun. The pressure piled up on these poor, overtaxed calendar days means that they tend to collapse under the weight of expectation and party dresses. More than New Year’s—whose only real demand is “Drink!”—Halloween is supposed to be crazy, a requirement that troubles everyone besides art school students, whose tuition down payment grants four years’ access to an unlimited hoard of bonkers beans.

People who aren’t crazy on their own try to make up for it on October 31 by putting on stupid hats, drinking dumb things, and then whining into the next day’s brunch that, “this Halloween sucked.” Well buck up normals! The secret to a fun Halloween is the same one that makes one night stands worthwhile:

Low Expectations.

Unless your brother is an aspiring white masked psychopath, you will not have a Halloween like in the movies. Your costume will be worse than the one’s on television. It will either be uncomfortable, hard to understand, inappropriate for the weather, or too fragile to do any of the things you want to do. (All four of these problems can be yours if you’re dressed up as, say, a sexy placenta.) The party you wanted to attend will be cancelled, far away or (as a friend described a Lower East Side shindig she ended up at last night) sweaty.

Disappointment comes when you try to make your social life something it isn’t. Last week, were you the sort of person who likes waiting in line and spending lots of money? If the end of October hasn’t seen you transformed into a sweaty Jersey boy with skin the color of an autumn leaf, you probably don’t want to go to a haunted house any more than you usually like going to clubs. Are you generally too lazy to truck out to Brooklyn for a warehouse party that may or may not have free beer? Then you won’t enjoy doing it while dressed as a giraffe. Just because you’re dressed as someone fun doesn’t mean you actually are.

I understand myself well enough to know that at my core, I am as outgoing as a wilted fern. So last night, instead of filling my belly with jello shots and my face with cocaine, I cooked a quiet dinner at home. (Sauteed grouper! Scalloped potatoes! Kale! What could be more thrilling?) Afterwards, I occupied a friend’s sofa and watched the Yankee game while seven or eight of my buddies pregamed. As they debated when to go out—headed to a party in an abandoned Green Point Catholic school—the TV and I acted as an anchor, keeping us so tightly focused on baseball that by the time we left it was past midnight.

They skipped off to the L train, and I went to a party that, by midnight-thirty, was already winding down. My friends were at Arrow Bar, on A, a place with very loud music that is occasionally not awful. We watched the end of the game and tried hard to dance, finally decided that the music was too loud to do so, and went back up to the street. As though it was a casual suggestion, I floated the idea of going back to my place. We got beer, we got pizza, and we stayed up late enough to watch the clocks change.

This would have looked like a typical weekend, except that I was wearing a bathrobe and toting a towel. I think that’s the point. What’s wonderful about Halloween is that it’s a holiday for everyone—crazy Halloween is not. I wish it weren’t such a big deal; I wish there weren’t so much pressure to HAVE AN AWESOME TIME. I wish Halloween happened four times a year. The fun comes in walking streets you see every day, streets that have become stale, and seeing them covered in wacky drunks. Strangers are social, and everyone’s looking for fun. Disappointment comes when you overreach, and a safe bet is just to do what you always do, but with a wig on.

 

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October 30, 2009

Having Fun In Stupid Brooklyn

I’m not here to talk about the fact that my bedroom smells like maple syrup, although it is disconcerting. If this post seems unduly Vermonty, you’ll know why.

No, I wanted to write about bowling. The great American pastime, right? (Until the Mets are in the playoffs, Major League Baseball can fuck off.) Great social function of the heart land, the preferred sport of fat people, that neat thing they do sometimes in “The Big Lebowski” and “Kingpin.” I spent a lot of high school bowling badly—my average’s been stuck at about 97 for years—and I admit a certain nostalgia for Melrose Lanes and Strike and Spare, those wood paneled dumps whose crowd was only 1/2 as trashy as the arcade game lineup in the back. When my A-1 Best Friend declared a desire for bowling on her birthday, I was right on board.

I mean damn, I love bowling.

My 1983 Guide To New York City recommends the borough of Brooklyn as “gritty” and “working class,” specifying the neighborhood of Williamsburg as a “fascinating enclave of Judaism.” Since God’s chosen people surely love God’s chosen sport, we set out on the L train for Brooklyn Bowl. With our $2,000 sunglasses and $9,000 boxer briefs marking us as pure Manhattanites, we expected to stick out garishly among a throng of black-clad, yarmulke-wearing construction workers. We were surprised to feel somewhat underdressed. Place looked like this:

All I can say is that Brooklyn Bowl is a very nice bowling alley. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. It has expansive leather couches, soft lighting (with those supercool neo-industrial lightbulbs that are so popular in pseudo-warehouse environments), and banging DJ sets. There are no plastic chairs, no sticky spots on the floor, the ball returns all work and the PA never played Sexyback, My Humps or Rockstar—three songs I thought one could not bowl without. Despite the bizarre string pinsetter (whose swinging ropes seemed to occasionally knock down an extra pin or two), bowling is bowling, and I like it.

I had read somewhere that Brooklyn had been infested by a rodent named the “hipster,” but that was not what I saw in evidence at the bowling alley. Rather, there were lots of very well dressed people, casting serious glances at the room and the band and sometimes wearing baseball hats which they may or may not have been in earnest about. Say what you will about ironic appropriation of Americana, even the irritating faux-poor of Williamsburg cannot afford $40 for an hour’s bowling, or $30 for a plate of (excellent) fried chicken. These were just regular rich people.

In between frames the other night (I bowled badly; my friends bowled worse. Hooray 97!), I was struck by the sensation that somebody was missing the point. Is it dumber to bowl in a nice bowling alley, or to feel betrayed by that alley’s niceness, as though clean floors somehow obliterate whatever I’m supposed to be experiencing when I pick up a ball? (On an unrelated note, I’ve always had trouble bowling in Nashville because my hands are too large for the tightly grouped holes on a 12 or 14 pound ball, but too weak to wield a larger one comfortably. The spacing on Brooklyn Bowl’s 14 pounders was larger, suggesting that the owners are counting on fragile-wristed clientele.)

I can’t decide if Brooklyn Bowl is reprehensible, for turning a simple fly over state pleasure into something upscale and grotesque, or if I’m an idiot for caring. Bowling is hardly something I can lay claim to—it’s not as though anyone in my family was ever in a league. Confidently, I can say that there’s nothing wrong with being bothered when a cheap pleasure is made expensive. The atmosphere of a low-rent bowling alley—the supposed simplicity of the sport, as though poverty is a virtue—is an intangible, with little meaning at all. Money is concrete, and if what matters is bowling qua bowling, it’s a lot cheaper at home than here.

All of this anxiety was obliterated about halfway through our first hour, when the waiter (I mean, really, a bowling alley has WAITERS?) brought over plates of ribs and cheese fries. “Are these yours?” he asked, and when we said no told us, “Oh. I guess these must be compliments of the chef?” We nodded as though that made sense, and wolfed down the free food well after another waitress had shown up wondering where Lane 9’s ribs were. The food abides, as it were. As I soaked my face, fingers and ball with gratis sauce, my ass sunk deep into the leather couch, I stopped worrying about the building and relaxed into the ceaseless crash of pins.

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October 23, 2009

Luxury Appliance Whine

One of my favorite parts of eating is the chewing. I also like the tasting, and the swallowing can be good too, particularly when dining on hot miso soup or crunchy shrimp. (Hmm…I want sushi.) But these three, though crucial elements of eating, are not nearly the only things to enjoy. Other fun things to do to food include:

  • Cutting (or spooning)
  • Digesting
  • Cooking
  • Remarking (as in, for example, a blog or Twitter)
  • Pelting (consider the example at the end of this clip)

The close reader will observe that nowhere on that list appears the word “dishwashing.” Since the dawn of plates, man has wrestled with that scourge, and until the 19th century found no way around it other than not eating, using dirty plates, or subjugating women to do his chores for him. Besides penicillin, which is difficult to spell and therefore not really worth your time anyway, the dishwasher is the greatest invention of the last few hundred years. It allows for stress-free dining, and guilt free snacking. Want a bowl of cereal? Not sure if you feel like cleaning the bowl afterwards? Don’t worry! The machine will do it for you.

They make food easier, apartments cleaner, roommates happier. They could probably improve sex if we gave them the chance. (But really, let’s not.) Frankly, there is no problem a dishwasher cannot solve.

And now mine’s acting up. I think it was all of last week’s chicken grease. My appliance is no powerhouse. Sized for a typical New York apartment, it holds approximately three plates, or two bowls and a cup, at a time. Our decreased water pressure means that its churning is mild, and only gets dishes sort-of-clean. But we’re simple people, and sort-of-clean has always been enough.

But last week, sort-of-clean stopped happening. I think it was the chicken grease cascade resultant from my first steps into the realm of science. The dishes we ate on emerged with their grime caked on, solid as the Berlin wall, and everything else we put in came back adorned with a thin film of slime. Anything that was almost-sort-of-clean got put away; the rest we ran through again, only to find the grime caked harder. A massive backlog resulted, so that nearly all of our mugs, glasses and plates were in the dishwasher, the sink, or hidden somewhere around the apartment. For two days we had no clean silverware at all—you can imagine the trauma. (I was pleasantly surprised that my roommate, who has more love for cleanliness than I, was not killed by the strain.)

I’m speaking in the past tense, hopeful that the present stillness marks the end of this war, and not just an interlude. I waged a massive offensive yesterday, donning yellow gloves and hand washing every dish I could find. (Yes, it is true: I am a valiant human being.) But this could just mean we’re back at parity. If the dishwasher is truly broken, and not just underpowered, I could be back where man was until the 1886, when Josephine Cochrane pioneered the first practical mechanical dishwasher. I am staring down a spectre, a kitchen poltergeist whose trickery ensures that every smudge I make on my dishware stays there until I scrub it off myself.

My hands are too soft to go back to that.

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October 20, 2009

Hot Chicken Results: Stage I

When last we left our valiant hero he had just attempted something marvelous: the simultaneous frying of four sorts of chicken, divided into four groups and categorized scientifically. We return now, to watch as he announces the results of his mad experiment, hot oil on his face and grease still streaming from his maw.

So, where were we? That’s right. Chicken.

Groups 1 & 2 were the least interesting. (They weren’t any less moist than 3 & 4, though, which suggests that a salt brine is a waste of time.) Of course, the control is supposed to be dull, but I was disappointed by Group 2’s abject failure. Soaking in Red Hot added no spice, and the wetness of the chicken meant that most of the breading flaked off in the hot oil, wasting the chicken’s skin and marring my beautiful, pristine grease. At only a few hundred Scoville units, Frank’s—which I was using as a substitute for Crystal—is as spicy as a pimiento.

Group 3 was the most surprising. There’s something savage about adding all of the seasoning after cooking has finished. There’s no heat—or even salt!—underneath the skin, making it possible to tear off all the spice in a single bite. But this method did have a few unforeseen advantages. First of all, it’s fucking spicy—hot enough that one bite of skin will have you tasting spice the whole way through—and the flavor mixture of cayenne and lard is surprisingly engaging. Also, the hot paste is liquid enough that it transfers onto the bread beneath the chicken, allowing for the flavored Wonder bread which is such a crucial part of the dish. So it looks like hot chicken and it tastes like hot chicken (hurts like it, too!), but the last method just seems more honest.

Spiciness aside, Group 4 was the best seasoned and the most carefully fried; the only problem is that I didn’t use enough cayenne. I think this method has potential. (Mom was, as always, right.)

Next time I do this I’m going to cook half control (not all my friends like heat) and half Group 4, increasing the amount of cayenne with each few pieces I drop in to try to triangulate the ideal flour/pepper ratio. I might also fix a little of that paste as a kind of heat safety-net, which ensures that any potentially pain-free piece of meat can be doctored if wished. That next test will have to wait a couple of weeks, unfortunately. Besides what I ate, I inhaled so much grease last night that I can feel it lining the inside of my nose.

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October 19, 2009

Hypothesis: I Am A Fatass

Apparently fried chicken is not study food. I have commenced Stage I of the recently announced Hot Chicken Moonshot, and though the contribution to fatty science was immeasurable, it eradicated my ability to complete schoolwork. (I would still be lying down had it not been for a crucial burp, which was well concealed enough that none of my guests left in a huff.) My approach last night was scattershot, a sampling of three different approaches to determine which is the most deserving of refinement. I started with the Internet, which has provided a surprising lack of opinion on the subject. Something called Uncle Phaedrus offered three suggestions, and I tried out two, in addition to the method that my mother most fancied.

The chicken, therefore, was divided into four groups:

  1. The Control: No brine, no seasoning beyond regular seasoned flour
  2. A Hot Sauce Brine: Soaked for two hours in a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot, and tossed in regular seasoned flour
  3. The 2008 Nashville Hot Chicken Award Winner: Soaked in a salt brine, tossed in plain flour and slathered in a paste made principally from cayenne and lard
  4. Mom’s Thought: Soaked in a salt brine and tossed in flour heavily seasoned with cayenne

I’ll have those results tomorrow. For now, a few observations on the cooking itself:

  • As I observed last week, the most important thing is getting the oil hot enough (somewhere between hot as balls and hot as blazes) to brown the chicken within the first few minutes. Dropping floured chicken in roiling oil ensures a nice color, seals in a lot of the flavor, and makes a lovely noise.
  • While the chicken is cooling, it is vital that as much grease be leeched out as possible. The less grease, the more crunch. The more crunch, the more compliments. Paper towels need to be changed before they are fully soaked through.
  • Frying a piece of celery with the first batch of chicken seems to help with the golden-browning.
  • If you eat five pieces of fried chicken, it will be hard to choke down any mac & cheese.
  • Writing a blog entry about fried chicken will make you want to eat more. It is advisable to keep a few pieces in reserve.

Trying to keep four recipes distinct in my mind at the same time I was deftly bantering with my guests made for some sloppiness as regards those first two points. That, and the poor quality of Whole Foods’ expensive chicken, meant that last night’s fare was technically inferior to Wednesday’s batch, which was otherworldly in its crispiness. I will be more careful in the future.

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October 16, 2009

Hotter, Battered, Fresher, Stronger

Apologies for recent radio silence. Actual school work, as well as my friends’ surprising sense of entitlement that I sometimes spend time with them, has intervened. No matter—I’ve returned, and I’m scheming.

In honor of the 40th anniversary of the moon shot—a few months late, but who’s really keep track?—I’m considering embarking on a project of my own. It started, in a way, in July, when my mother and I fried chicken at the whim of a smug Italian man. Because it’s fatty, messy and time consuming, it’s a dish we make rarely, and we didn’t know where to start. (All right, fine, the fattiness never stopped us for a minute. More we were afraid of the threat of awful greasiness, a fried chicken pitfall we weren’t quite sure how to skirt.)

“Well,” I began, with trademark eloquence. “If we’re to do this, we should do it right, and get it soaking in buttermilk.”

For what could be more effectively southern than raw meat swimming in seasoned buttermilk, flopping about in a white-fat pool, softening up for a few hours before a dip in the Wesson oil Jacuzzi? In our heads we saw in cubic inches of crispy fried shell, which would crack at lip’s faintest touch to reveal chicken so moist it would make a baby cry. What we got was Tower of Babel Buttermilk Fried Chicken. Forgetting that 350° oil is a bad place for fragile things, we were shocked to see our elaborate breading flake off into nothing on contact with the heat. Like the skull of Dwight D. Eisenhower, our chicken was mostly bare.

I started thinking about fried chicken again a few weeks ago, and I haven’t been able to stop. If a buttermilk extravaganza isn’t the true path, then what is the ideal method? My mother’s investigations have yielded something that should not have surprised me: cooking chicken is like murder, and ’twere well it were done quickly. Most southern cooking is like this. Even a massive production—a crayfish boil, for instance—is at its heart quite simple. The skill of the Tennessee cook is not to build something elaborate, but to cook five classic dishes at once, making no mess, timing them all to the same moment, and having each one taste as good as it has for the last two hundred years.

I fried chicken on Wednesday with this in mind, and was shocked at how easy it is. A guy doesn’t even need a thermometer!

  1. Shake rinsed chicken in a little seasoned flour
  2. Drop in hot-motherfucking-oil
  3. Turn down heat when chicken starts to brown
  4. Flip regularly until meat stops sizzling

And that’s it. An hour’s work, and I was eating better fried chicken than downtown Manhattan has ever given me. But then, trouncing the salty, crusty gutter produce that passes for chicken below 14th Street was easy. Matching Prince’s is going to be hard.

Yep. That’s the project. I’m going to spend the six weeks I have until Thanksgiving learning how to make hot chicken, trying different methods (when do we add the heat? During brining? With the flour? As a post-frying paste?!) to mimic that titan of Dickerson Pike. At Thanksgiving, I’ll take a trip out to see how I’m doing, and adjust whatever recipe I’ve come up with accordingly. And so, in the spirit of JFK, I predict that we will be able to match Prince’s hot chicken by Christmas.

Unless my friends and I all die of heart disease first.

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