Bird of Pray – Kneeling for Nashville’s Hot Chicken

“It’s important to learn one thing every day,” we mentioned with the wisdom of Yodas from the backseat of the taxi. Our driver had never heard of Prince’s Hot Chicken. He’d heard of Hattie B’s, but never of Prince’s. Thus, we explained that he’d fulfilled his schooling for that particular Wednesday.

Prince’s Hot Chicken, according to our Hot Chicken Sources, is the original home of Nashville’s famous spicy lunch staple. You know … the type of place with oilcloths on the tables, six deep fryers, a four-pound bucket of coleslaw and a menu masking-taped to the back wall.

They only take cash.

However, unlike me, our driver had heard of Hot Chicken. Apparently everyone in the South – save myself – had heard of this super-seasoned, nuclear fried chicken phenomena.

“Oh my Gawd, Hot Chicken! You ain’t never had Hot Chicken??!?”

Nope.

Thus, I found my one thing to learn for December 3rd, 2014, too : What’s up with Hot Chicken?

To be fair to my Southern soul, Hot Chicken’s pretty endemic to Nashville. According to Wikipedia (the greatest site for lazy fact checkers ever), the recipe for bathing a Yardbird in 40 Tablespoons of Cayenne was devised back in the 1930s.

The story starts with a man named Thornton Prince. Thornton was somewhat of a philandering cad. Or, as my mother likes to say politely, “he had a little problem with his zipper.”

One night, after stumbling in smelling of Chanel No. 2 again, Thornton’s girlfriend doctored his chicken to Nuclear Fallout, hoping to teach him a lesson.

Prohibition-Era RomCom Twist Alert: Thornton actually loved it.

BOOM! Hot Chicken was born! And all the angel’s in Hell tapped danced the Electric Slide.

Back up on Planet Earth, Prince’s was named for him sometime in the 1980s by his great niece. She still owns the joint.

We walked in the small restaurant and headed to the back, to a tiny, square order window. A woman was standing on the other side. Behind her were two cooks and several deep fryers … bubbling harder than sorority girls on Rush Day.

It smelled of Sunday picnics and potato salad. A stack of red plastic baskets decorated with bones, wax paper and grease puddles waited to be cleared.

“You girls want the Mild,” she said, not asking.

“Are you sure? I like spicy!”

Her eyes flicked up and down me once, deeming me a sweet, simple type of fool.

“Naw, Baby. You need the Mild.”

Then, because we were in the deep South … and everyone in the Deep South is so nice they will just give you free stuff … from the back appeared a lone chicken strip in a basket. It was speckled darker red in some places, where the thick seasoning had coagulated on the blistered, brown skin. Pain glitter. Satan sprinkles. Fire salt. The Medium.

I bit into it and then nodded heartily while chewing, “Yep. Mild.” Followed six seconds later by a garbled, “Holy fu$%*king Hell my mouth!”

Then we sat. And we ate. And we conquered (the Mild).

To sum it up, there are really only a few minor (potentially mouth destroying) differences between Hot Chicken and regular old fried chicken.

1. The bird is served on top of a few slices of white Wonder Bread.

2. It’s wearing with a little pickle slice hat!

3. Check yo’self. If you think you can handle the Extra Hot, be prepared for your bird to come out nearly black with seasoning. I’m not exaggerating that Extra Hot could finish with a visit to the emergency room.

Prince’s is a must. I’ve never had that other bird at Nashville’s famous Hattie’ B’s, and I likely never will. Next time … every time … I’ll head to the original.