Fried chicken sandwiches are suddenly all the rage, and we at the Spy can’t abide being out of the loop. So last week we snuck out of the busy Spy Test Kitchens and headed south to Charleston, South Carolina. (Ostensibly it was an impromptu social trip to catch up with some other Washington College alums. But we actually went to do some field research.) What a beautiful time of the year it would be to wander over the cobble and ballast stone streets, peering through wrought iron gates at well-tended and colorful gardens! We meandered without much purpose, except at meal times and cocktail hours. Our tour guide was all seeing, and guided us to excellent restaurants and watering holes. Charleston was an eater’s delight.
We started our road trip with car snacks, “Hamilton” on the car radio, and the long and meandering Route 17 ahead of us. Our snacks consisted of Reese’s pieces and some stale, post-Easter jelly beans. We stopped for a quick bite of some cardboard-tough and bone dry Bojangle’s fried chicken in North Carolina, which gave us an opportunity to jiggle the sound system and get some podcasts lined up for the afternoon of driving down into Low Country.
The Holy City is one of Charleston’s best sobriquets, and it much more elegant than nearby Elgin’s nickname “Home of the Catfish Stomp”. Charleston has been dubbed: “the most polite and hospitable city in America” by Southern Living magazine. And that was our experience, except for the snippy hostess we had in one establishment…
After an exhausting hour of walking in temperate weather to view the delights of the Charleston we were ready to eat. We had strolled past some architectural and historic gems. First we admired The Rainbow Row: a block of charming pastel-hued houses. Then we loped past the Pink House, over checker board sidewalks, and up the shallow marble stairs at the Charleston City Hall to see a well-hidden John Trumbull masterwork portrait of George Washington, and then through to Washington Park to pose for photos for our insistent paparazzo. Then we staggered into Poogan’s Porch Restaurant, a Charleston landmark. Divine. Book ahead. Poogan’s Porch Restaurant, 72 Queen Street. https://www.poogansporch.com/
Normally I try to refrain from falling on the proffered bread baskets like the ravenous ill-mannered peasant I really am, but I made an exception for the freshly baked, still-piping-hot biscuits which appeared before us like some vision of floury, beige clouds on our table. We all grabbed those biscuits and hastily schmeared them with generous lashings of honey-infused nectar-like butter. And then we found the energy to order lunch.
My companions made some healthy lunch choices. One ordered Salmon Spinach Salad, another ordered Fried Chicken Salad, with a side dish of She Crab Soup, two had Shrimp and Grits, and I requested the Fried Chicken Sandwich. Yumsters. I should be kind, but the Bojangle’s chicken I had eaten the day before was not in the same class as Poogan’s Porch Fried Chicken. Their executive chef just sighed with relief that I have typed that revelation and shared it with you. Road food and fried chicken sandwiches found deep within the Holy City cannot possibly be compared.
The Grubstreet podcasters did a story about a huge, three-story Chick-Fil-A that recently opened in Manhattan. They could not believe that with all the food choices available in New York City that anyone would eat there. They weren’t concerned with price, or moral outrage, just taste. Before I began my awkward, irregular boycott of Chick-Fil-A for ethical reasons, I used to think their chicken sandwich was pretty good. I thought the pickle was a novel idea. But now that I have eaten a fried chicken sandwich at Poogan’s Porch I will never go back to Chick-Fil-A for any reason. https://www.grubstreet.com/2016/01/grub-street-podcast-chicken-sandwiches.html
My sandwich was carried aloft through the crowded, but attractive, back dining room. There were high ceilings with tall windows that felt vaguely Parisian. Ladies lunched. We sipped our un-ladylike beers. And then, no longer sated by the morsels of cloud-like biscuits, we hovered up our lunches like a pack of wolves.
Consider the pickle. The pickles on my fried chicken sandwich were not rationed out from an industrial sized chemical vat of processed dill pickle slices. These pickles were a floaty blanket of thinly sliced dill pickle slaw. Oh my goodness. A little tang of vinegar, a little crunch of sweet cabbage, with an inkling of shredded carrot and the slightest kick from Texas Pete-honey jus. The shiny and soft bun was a tasty vehicle that bore the crispy crunchy tender fried chicken from the plate to my yawning cavern of a mouth. And the house made chips were crispy crunchy bits of golden salty goodness.
Holy smokes. You may quote me. Please go on pilgrimage to Poogan’s Porch Restaurant in the Holy City. Oh, everyone else said their lunches were very tasty, too. Mine was a just a religious experience. Thank you, Charleston.
Poogan’s Executive Chef isn’t sharing the fried chicken recipe, so you will have to stop by the next time you are in Charleston. I would suggest going at lunch, and with an appetite born of enjoying the many beautiful sights in Charleston. And don’t forget to visit ghostly Zoe St. Armand in the second floor ladies room before you make your way to the Battery for your afternoon stroll.
“The best comfort food will always be greens, cornbread, and fried chicken.”
Maya Angelou
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