Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Fried Chicken Casserole
Fuck all your fancy hipster southern food restaurants. Waiting in line for an hour and then paying $25 for a plate of fried chicken and greens is like picking up a toothless tweeker whore and giving her $1,000 for a lackluster handjob. For years I have been telling people the best fried chicken joint in town is a shitty dive bar nestled along a row of shady motels on Interstate Avenue and not some fancy pants SE restaurant’s pretentious reinvention of a traditionally poor man’s food.
I first visited George’s when I moved into the neighborhood almost a decade ago. I heard there was a shooting in the parking lot the night before and I wanted to check the place out. I was perusing their menu for comedic material and came across the fried chicken. Throwing caution into the wind, I ordered food from a place that was filled with transients playing video poker. It took them eight gazillion light years to make the damn chicken, which I quickly came to realize is standard practice, but once it arrived I knew I had found a hidden gem. And then the bartender kicked someone out for smoking crack in the bathroom.
The other night I got an assload of chicken at George’s but was unable to finish it all. Sure, I could eat the leftovers cold out of the fridge like a sucker. Or, I could smash the JoJo potatoes into the bottom of a casserole dish, add some grated cheddar and chopped bacon, throw in the fried chicken, top it with 15 whisked eggs and bake it. Move over inventor of the wheel guy, there’s a new idea sheriff in town. Eat it.