"That ain't Southern fried chicken"
-Marcus Visco
I was born around 6:30 PM, in Sharon General Hospital, on the amnesty side of a rain-swept window, the first day of October, 1975. I spent hardly enough time in western Pennsylvania--too young to form concrete movie-style memories, but took away the image of the house on the hill up to which, to my parents' white fright, my younger brother, little past infancy himself, left his bed and impressively sleepwalked; and another of a small dog named either Roger or Carter. Given the era, and my father's political alignment I assume the former, but I can't say for sure.
Without dwelling in autobiography--nor the risk of losing you, I'll simply paraphrase the rest. I traveled from Sharon--well, Volant specifically, to Bedford, briefly, on to Carlisle where the most of my young life was passed. After a mostly gray era just short of a decade in Indiana (PA), alternately attending classes and learning the nuances of mostly hobo-quality bourbons, I entered the present--and possibly life-fulfilling volley between the two great cities of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Onward, I picture--with the same bad eyes with which I look back to that sleepwalker's hill and that dog in Volant, I ascertain my final days living out a trout fishing senility in Bedford County. As my parents' hearts, and therefore my heart, were augured there, I presume and predict mine will eventually go there, also Pennsylvania, to get some Rest.
So it is a reasonable, and not at all offensive, observation for one to make that the fried chicken I make fails, and likely always will fail--to earn the modifer: Southern. Truthfully, when adjectives supercede debt in my sleepless nights I'll find--even prematurely if fortune should shine, that final Hill in Bedford County and find my grave happily early.
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I start by breaking down a 3 lb chicken, placing it in a large bowl. Cover with a mixture of buttermilk, Sriracha chili sauce, salt and pepper. Leave it covered in the fridge for 4 or 5 hours.
I've grown comfortable with the large cast-iron Lodge skillet my great pal, Kate, bought me several years ago. When I can afford it, I fill it with savory peanut oil. These lean days (pardon the dietary irony) I use canola oil infused with a few heaping tablespoons of bacon fat. Raise the skillet to high heat--not quite smoking. 330 degrees if you have a fryer thermometer.
In the final moments of marinading prepare a flour pan for the crust.
At this point I feel compelled to raise an issue of some private controversy: the incorporation of prefab ingredients. Throughout my burn-barrel and asshole years I eschewed them; why should the Kraft Foods corporation get even a fraction of the credit for my labors?! If I needed ketchup for the top of a meatloaf I'd make it. If I needed a salad dressing I'd gladly throw rocks through every last window of quaint little Hidden Valley than stoop to pollute my vegetables with their goop. These days, well, I still adhere to it as a principle, but occasionally do bend the rule to comfort's advantage. It is, after all a sin tantamount to pollution, to neglect terrestrial forms of pleasure. I grew up on this innovative and transformative style of home-cooking, and would be a fool to resist it when it appeals as it does to both palate and palate's memory.
The flour pan consists of thirds: one of flour, one of homemade (lightly-toasted) breadcrumbs, and the final, a pulverized bag of plain, Herr's salted potato chips. Scatter in a handful of dried parsley and finely grated parmesan cheese. Stir through with a fork.
Before frying I remove an oven rack, laying it over last week's outspread City Paper, on the kitchen table--works just as well as a conventional cooling rack.
The marinaded chicken parts go from the marinade--shaking excess off, to the crust mixture, pressing it in firmly to ensure adherence, and into the hot oil. The best advice for arranging the frying parts I can impart came to me from the fantastic Alton Brown, advising to place the thighs in the center of the skillet where the heat is strongest. It seems rather counter-intuitive seeing as, compared to, say, the lording breasts, they're fairly puny, but the fact is the deep location of the transecting bone makes for a tricky fry. This also means fantastic revenge on the bratty little guys as they make ideal candidates for checking doneness.
A few words on the frying itself. The tv will tell you to get a fryer thermometer. When my ship comes in I plan on it; they're exceedingly helpful for a number of reasons. The first is that the base temperature of the oil (325-330F) will insure neither--thanks to too low a temperature, grease-saturated chicken; nor--to too high a temperature, carbonized--and likely internally raw, chicken. The second reason the thermometer is helpful is that by merely adding the pieces to the frying oil the temperature changes significantly. When cooking in batches large enough to warrant multiple fryings this is all the more important. Consider the chicken parts as ice cubes to the frying oil's tea. Their proportions and therefore the effect are similar.
I find 10 minutes per side is usually enough--it isn't a precise science: Just get the parts to show an internal temperature of 160 on a meat thermometer (by the way: this device is way too dirt cheap and constitutionally essential to not have and use at each turn in which meat safety is of issue). Again, try it out on the thighs, as they'll be the ones most likely to deceive with the premature appearance of doneness.
So too is it important to watch in the initial moments of frying for premature browning on the parts. They must brown, but browning should occur in perfect sync with the internal cooking. The crust and skin, you're right, are the best parts of the experience, but what lies inside ought to be palatable as well.
Onto the oven rack to cool and shed any carried-over fryer oil.
I serve with a mustardy, crunchy lima bean and carrot salad; that recipe to follow.
On a note of commencement on the subject I do defer, when in imitation of the Southern original article, to Alton Brown's recipe from which every variation I have produced relies for the fundamentals. It is reliable, tasty, and yes, authentically regional to Mr. Brown's Georgia heritage.
As is, regionally, mine.
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