I went back to the Source last night, journeying out to North Nashville (?) to visit 123 Ewing Drive, home of Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack. These are the boys I’m trying to beat, or rather, to match. And revisiting the inspiration for my hot chicken testing reminded me of two things:
- These guys make chicken for a living
- I am a chump
Prince’s greatness lies in its simplicity. And by that I don’t mean to suggest an adoration for some kind of primitive country living. I just like that they know what they’re good at, and they don’t try to do more. (Interior decorating is certainly not a strength.) The chicken goes in the oil when ordered, meaning a half hour wait on a folding chair or wooden bench, listening to the security guard’s television blare Law & Order. (Apparently the defendant was a registered sex offender and had child porn on his computer.) The heat scale isn’t clever, ranging from mild to xtra hot, and sides are limited to slaw, fries, “bake beans” and extra bread. (Worth the 25¢.) It really is a lovely place.
Because chicken demands beer, my companion and I got ours to go. Because I’m a stupid hubristic piece of offal, I ordered my leg hot. (In the past, medium has had me sweating.) The skin was a uniform rust color, suggesting some kind of liquid rub poured on after frying, or possibly that the cooked meat had been dipped whole into a vat of the fiery death goop. The taste was not far from the Cayenne & Crisco paste I’ve been using—the heat was about twice as powerful as the best I’ve done.
The heat didn’t bother me at first, but after five minutes it felt like I’d been sprayed with mace. My lips looked like Scarlett Johansson’s, and my mouth was as stripped as the jungles of North Vietnam. (I believe that’s my second Agent Orange allusion in the month—record!) I worked through as much of the meat as I could, but a foolish touch of forefinger to eye meant that tears began leaking after ten or fifteen minutes. I went to the bathroom, where I washed my hands, blew my nose, spit and dabbed my tears. It was a carnival of the G rated bodily fluids. I dove back into the meal, gobbling pickles and spicified white bread, but once my beer was gone the growing weight in my stomach eventually forced me onto my back. I finished the leg, but not the bread, and I didn’t pick the bones clean.
The chicken won, but I’m okay with that. This proved something I already suspected, which is that anything hotter than medium obscures the tender flavor of well fried chicken. It also demonstrated that eating lots of cayenne pepper causes heartburn, and taught me the remarkable fact that it is apparently possible to literally shit fire. But I always enjoy an opportunity for humiliation and pain, so I’m glad I tried the hot. From a scientific standpoint, it was good to taste my next goal. (We’ll deal with the xtra when we come to it.) Next time I’ll just eat medium.
When’s next time? Right now, fucker. I brought home a second helping. Lunch—ACTIVATE!
