Fried Chicken: To Be (battered) or Not to Be (battered)? By Tom Motley
Shakespeare may not have eaten any real fried chicken. He ate fried fish and chips, most likely. Indeed, the player Shallow’s menu-choice in King Henry the Fourth seems to come closest to the bard ever suggesting joy of eating bird, in writing:
A' shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook.
Like Shallow, I love fried dove-breast too, but I am sure Will Shakespeare missed out on fried chicken, Texas style. Sadly, Will Motley missed out on that great pleasure too, at the hands of my kitchen-challenged Grandmother. Grandma was an expert with horses and the Bible, but not cooking.
What do I love about fried chicken? The first thing that stirs turn-of-the century (the last century) familial-prairie-memory is, of course, the vibrant aroma wafting off a hot skillet of the stuff; next comes the crunch, on top of tender texture, moisture, and simply an immense feeling of comfort, of security. It’s not the slam of turkey’s tryptophan that makes you want a nap after a family-shared meal of fried chicken, it’s just a sensation called contentment.
In Dallas, culinary rediscovery of the historic charms of fried chicken seems to occur every ten years or so. Like golden-puffed fried chicken rising in a vat of hot oil, our revived cultural protein-longing rises to the surface of our regional social consciousness, provoked by the sensory memory of smell, taste and feel of good times. The lusty, tactile experience prompts in us a remembered manifestation, a tangible bit of evidence of the ritualistic elements of family and community ceremonies: Sunday dinner, reunions, post-funeral gatherings, picnics, church socials, or neighborhood cookouts.
Even a solo meal of a couple of pieces of fried chicken, for a Texan far away from home, or a recent love-dumpee, divorcee, or one-in-mourning, fried chicken delivers a comforting touchstone.
Naylor's Drumstick (site of current day's Norma's) faithfully served up hot platters of fried chicken fulfillment for decades of Oak Cliff families on Davis Street. The Yellow Cab Company had its Oak Cliff terminal right across the street. My dad drove his cab out of that lot.
Tracing the history of small, family-owned fried chicken joints in Dallas (before the year 2000) is a daunting task. Historical information about cultural ideals (like fried chicken) ultimately becomes mostly apocryphal anyway. Small neighborhood cafes and convenience stores kept customers coming back for the crispy treasures for years in the same spots, much like popular snow-cone stands that stood next-door. However, originally single-site, neighborhood Henderson’s and Williams’ Chicken, for example, are both in multiple commercial locations today, throughout North Central and East Texas.
When I had a studio on Harwood St. in downtown Dallas, a favorite haunt of mine was the ancient Henderson's Chicken on Thomas Ave. (or State St., I forget) near the old cemetery south of the current MAC galleries on McKinney. There was a very hip old blues & jazz record store across the street. I used to take my best painting students there to shop for music, and then over to Henderson’s to get lunch-to-go for their field trips to my studio. The narrow, long place featured a mounted counter-top for diners, with a few stools, along one wall, and the serving counter just in front of the deep stainless-steel fryers. Fries were placed on the bottom of a paper boat, two wedges of Texas toast next, two pieces of fried chicken on top with a large, pickled jalapeno thrown in for good measure. Students loved it all.
When I was stationed at Grand Forks AFB, North Dakota, my friend Staff Sgt. Kay Crockett, from Tupelo, Miss. made chicken like his Momma taught him: cut up the chicken, wash the chicken thoroughly, pat dry lightly, salt and pepper (not too much). Kay rolled the pieces in flour, but I prefer to shake the chicken in flour inside a paper bag. This is my standard method today. I like it that the chicken pieces retain some of the water-wash which not only attaches to the flour nicely, but provides serious crackle in the hot oil and great finished crust.
Last Sunday, for my cool step-son, Luke, and his friend Trey (both skateboard virtuosos and fried chicken fans), I added panko to the flour coating. This awesome Japanese bread-crumb makes the chicken as Uber-crispy as coconut shrimp. I fried the floured chicken in a mixture of vegetable and peanut oil. Becca made Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and a huge, fresh salad, all organic, all from our garden. With her traditional, hand-made, Rice-Krispy treats for dessert, all was well with the world at the Motley house.
Buttermilk also makes a tasty companion to chicken, as batter-loving regulars at Sissy's Southern Kitchen & Bar on Henderson in Dallas will attest. Here in McKinney, we go to Rick’s Chophouse on the Square whenever a nostalgic, true, pan-fried-chicken fix is necessary. Executive Chef Andrea Shackelford recently explained their three day, labor-intensive process of brining, repeated buttermilk baths and consecutive flour coatings, days before the bird ever hits the pan.
On the other hand, my Grandma Motley's own battered, fried chicken was soft and mushy like KFC. She steamed the awful mess for much of the cooking process, I guess, to make sure the bird died thoroughly. I ate Grandma’s chicken only out of respect for the woman. She was, though, much more adventurous with fried potatoes, which were overcooked or burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. I think Grandma liked growing things a lot more than cooking them. Grandma’s gardens were prolific. She may have been the original raw food advocate, possibly regarding cooking vegetables as a vain human gesture.
My sweet Aunt Maureen raised (and fried) bantam chickens, the cooked pieces a perfect size for kids’ little fingers. Cousin Douglas and I would spend mornings doing chores for my aunt, with lots of playtime between jobs. We returned around noon to her little white, clapboard-sided house (across the street from the Irene Methodist Church) with shopping-list items from Uncle Walt’s store and the day’s mail from the post office downtown.
During our morning absence, Aunt Maureen would have plucked, sectioned, floured and fried a little bantam hen, straight out of the yard; no refrigeration required. With used Hawaiian Punch cans for iced tea glasses, Doug and I felt like child-kings. We were certainly spoiled little boys, enjoying a unique and delicious fried chicken dinner, from yard to skillet to table.