With a firstborn approaching high school graduation and a move down South, one might imagine the timing is right for some reflection, aka a profession of love. And it is—for Nashville hot chicken.
Hear me out.
Around 18 years ago, a kid was born. Somehow, someway, he had freakish musical talent, and after his parents saw him try to catch a ball, they decided to buy him a bunch of instruments.
Fast forward to now, and said kid believes Nashville suits his interests, identifying a Christian school that often gets confused with a horse race on Long Island.
For one parent, this sequence of events has meant planning a party, sifting through old pictures, scoping out the to-be dorm room, submitting health forms, and registering for classes.
I’m not that parent.
You see, Nashville, or so-called Music City, suits one of my interests as well.
It’s called eating.
And the dreams of Nashville hot chicken—they just won’t stop.
As the story goes, on one night during the Great Depression, the womanizer Thornton Prince returned home from a night of shenanigans. His girlfriend, with the goal of retribution, prepared him fried chicken with enough hot peppers to burn. Rather than feel the pain, however, Thornton became a fan, and decades later, so is everyone else.
The original recipe can still be found at Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack in Nashville—now run by Thornton’s extended family—though worthy imitators abound.
Here’s the deal.
The chicken is marinated, coated in spiced flour, fried, and coated once again with the key component—a cayenne pepper-based paste or sauce.
The level of heat can be dialed up or down as desired, and the bird is served on white bread with pickles.
The result is something that can be devoured for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or all three.
And all would agree—you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Nashville hot chicken.
On a personal level, the good news is that opportunities to visit the hot chicken capital will be plentiful.
The bad news, of course, is that for the vast majority of the year, I’ll be 775 miles away in the home of the Garbage Plate.
In other words, simple geography will limit my access to places like Prince’s and Hattie B’s.
But c’mon now—this ain’t no Shakespearean tragedy. Heck, this might as well be a Disney movie.
Because just next door lies Henrietta, New York, a suburb of Rochester that happens to be home to one of several hundred locations of Dave’s Hot Chicken.
Started in 2017 as a food stand in Los Angeles, Dave’s Armenian-American founders have since had mild success, spreading their Nashville-inspired product far and wide and ultimately selling the operation to private equity.
That means the cuisine of the Protestant Vatican is probably lurking around the corner from you, too.
The bottom line is this.
As Jesus once rose from the dead, my household, it could be said, is on the rise.
For my son, it’s his musicianship.
For my daughter, it’s her height.
For my wife, it’s her use of location tracking.
And for me, it’s my LDL cholesterol.
Title image credit: Serious Eats / Victor Protasio
