A Southern Spot on a Mission
FIRST the chicken is baptized in sweet tea, a Southern elixir giddy with sugar, in which tea is an afterthought. It is left to brine overnight, then dredged in milk, flour, salt, pepper and mystery spices that the chef refuses to divulge. Into the pressure fryer it goes, then onto your plate.
Dismemberment is swift. The skin is dark bronze and nubbly, studded with tiny crispy kernels and whorls, and already you are breaking off pieces and crumbling them in your mouth. Slow down. Consider, too, the pleasures of the flesh, tender and salty sweet, a marriage of brash and beatific. On hand are Texas Pete’s original hot sauce, flaring with cayenne, and squeeze bottles of honey, but the chicken is just fine without either.