editorials

Fried Chicken for Breakfast

The hostess showed us to the large table and motioned for us to have a seat. “I love familystyle restaurants,” I said to my husband as I surveyed the table set with fourteen plates of different patterns, fourteen glasses, and fourteen sets of silverware. “You never know who you’re going to meet.”

Gene plopped down at the end, I sat down in a ladderback chair to his right, and we both scooted up to the table. We had driven up to Nashville for the day to see the Picasso exhibit at the Frist Museum, but our first stop was Monell’s on the Manor for a hearty breakfast to fuel our day.

Our waiter reappeared with two strangers and seated them next to us.

We exchanged “Good mornings” with the couple as the waiter transferred several items from a serving tray to the table — a pitcher of sweet tea, a basket of piping hot buttermilk biscuits and cinnamon rolls, a bowl of peach preserves, and a big bowl of gravy.

“We haven’t been here before,” I said to the man, who identified himself as a doctor who splits his time between Pennsylvania and Nashville. “What’s good?”

“Everything!” he replied. His wife bobbed her head in agreement. “But you’ll remember the fried chicken forever. It’s exceptional.”

The stranger’s eyes grew large and happy when he uttered the words, “fried,” and “chicken.”

Within minutes, other strangers crowded our table — a military guy and his wife, two college friends with tattoos, and a family with two small children at the end.

The waiter and a helper unloaded more Southern classics to the table — thick-cut bacon, sausage patties, country ham, cheese grits, pancakes, corn casserole, and fried apples swimming in a thick glaze of cinnamon and sugar. Lastly, he set down a large platter heaped high with fried chicken taken just out of the grease.

The chicken was a showstopper. Everyone at our table stopped talking and gazed at the golden, glistening pieces. Its heavenly aroma wafted across the table and found my nose.

“Fried chicken for breakfast?” I whispered.

“Why not?” my husband said. He stabbed a piece with his fork and placed it on my plate before he passed the platter to his left.

I ladled peppery gravy over a buttermilk biscuit and ate it. It was good.

Next, I took a small bite of the chicken. Oh, Lord! My heart skipped a beat. It was delicious — divine, actually. The taste transported me back to my childhood. I saw my grandmother standing in her kitchen draped in an apron trimmed in colorful rickrack. She faced a large black cast iron skillet the size of a truck tire and carefully dipped out pieces of piping hot chicken from popping oil. One by one, she placed each succulent piece on a plate lined with napkins. I could smell her kitchen in my memory — bursting with the great smells of South Georgia cuisine.

I snapped back to the present and took another bite of Monell’s chicken. The skin was crisp and crusty. The meat was warm and juicy. The flavor was simply perfection — just the right amount of salt and seasonings.

I glanced around the table and witnessed every diner eating chicken in the rather hypnotic trance that had temporarily suspended me. Then my eyes met the eyes of the stranger across the table. He grinned at me with his super white teeth.

“I told you you’d never forget it. You and your husband will be talking about that chicken for the rest of the day,” he laughed. “In fact, you should wrap up a wing or leg in a napkin and put it in your pocketbook. You might get hungry while you are looking at those Picasso paintings.”

We feasted on fried fare and washed each piece down with tea so sweet, it tasted more like syrup than a beverage. When we could eat and drink no more, we pushed ourselves away from the table and said our “Goodbyes” to the band of strangers who had become our friends.

Our dining partner was right. My husband and I talked about that fried chicken for the rest of the day, and for the rest of the weekend. Actually, we are still talking about it, and today, I’m writing about it.

“How was the Picasso exhibit?” a friend asked me this morning.

“It was alright,” I answered. “But let me tell you about the fried chicken we ate while we were in Nashville…”