August 2003 Delaware Today Magazine
illustration by Craig Larotonda
Fried and True
People can go crazy hunting for rare and precious things, like gold, diamonds, and really good fried chicken. At least one of those things can be found in Sussex County, if you know where to look. By Matt Freeman.
It was one o'clock on a Friday afternoon in early June, and a heavy column of traffic was already grinding its way to the beach. I was trying to cross the road, and I strained my eyes east and west, looking for a break I could dash through. This particular stretch of Route 9, you see, passes through the heart of Georgetown. I was standing on East Market Street, right across from Smith's Family Restaurant. I'd come 100 miles or so just to be here. I didn't want to go to the beach. I wanted to go to Smith's and eat fried chicken.
I'd wanted to eat fried chicken in Sussex County for years. One of the first facts outsiders learn about Delaware is that Sussex produces more broilers than any other county in the country—some 200 million every year. This intrigued me, because chicken has always been a big part of my life. Food writer Waverly Root calls it a "singularly versatile" meat, and I've loved all its variations since my childhood, from the deceptively simple roasted bird to exotic treats like chicken tandoori.
But I'd never really had high-quality pan-fried chicken. The ethnic group I belong to is better known for making chicken into soup. I tried to make it myself once and produced an undercooked travesty, blotchy and leprous-looking. I never tried again.
Restaurants offered little help. It's easier, frankly, to find chicken tandoori than quality fried chicken. So for years I'd harbored an unfulfilled desire. When I heard about Sussex County—with its Southern culture and abundance of chickens—I sensed that I might be able to satisfy that craving at long last. Desire hardened into a quiet but relentless obsession.
For years, I thought about going on a quest, but I never acted on my plans. Finally the day came to approach it like a project. I sought the help of friends, coworkers, the Web, and people from the Sussex county tourism office and the Delmarva Poultry Institute, which celebrates the bird with a yearly festival featuring chicken cooked in a giant frying pan. Using their suggestions, I put together a list of restaurants to visit in Sussex County. Then I headed south, a vision of fried chicken drawing me onward, like the stars a mariner steers by.
On the Delmarva Peninsula, the sky opens wide as you roll across the flat country. Jimmy's Grille Family Restaurant is in the middle of this country, outside Bridgeville on Route 13. Nondescript outside, inside it's very much the comforting, old-fashioned family restaurant, with hand-painted wooden signs advertising pancakes and Maxwell House coffee. There are other good signs there—a brisk takeout business, informal but efficient service and waitresses who call you "hon."
The menu came. Two pieces of fried chicken with french fries, roll, and cole slaw cost $5.30. No problem there. The food came quickly, and I sank my teeth into my first bite of Sussex County fried chicken. The skin was dark, and I tasted the warmth of pepper but not the bite, with a hint of some other spice, something chicken-friendly like tarragon. The flesh was moist but not greasy. The skin was flexible, not crispy but dry.
The rest of the meal was classic comfort food. Thinking of my waistline, I forced myself to stop eating the French fries with four left—a moral victory. With iced tea, the meal cost $6.70. I could have eaten more, but I was satisfied. I'd found a restaurant that served good fried chicken, and just knowing it was there was a great comfort.
But there was more chicken to try. After fishing the afternoon away, I headed west from Fenwick Island, passing fields, villages, and the occasional development as I neared Doyle's Restaurant on Route 113, south of 54 near Selbyville. When I walked in, I felt a sense of déjà vu—Doyle's décor may be one notch newer than Jimmy's but it's still very much an old-fashioned family place.
While I waited, a waitress brought chicken to another party. I sat up rigidly, like a cat watching a bird, fascinated by its color, a delectable tawny gold. Three people—an older couple and their adult son—watched the plates being put in front of them, and I watched too. The parents must have made some anticipatory remark because the son said, with a teasing smile, "Chicken's not really that big a part of my life." I felt sorry for him, the way you might for someone who has never been in love.
Finally my own meal arrived: four pieces of Doyle's fried chicken, two vegetables, rolls and corn bread so moist and thick it was like maize-flavored fudge. The chicken's skin was golden, crispy and dry. As thin as parchment, it would crack and crumble in your mouth. The seasoning was more subtle than Jimmy's, just a hint of salt, and the meat was moist.
I cleaned my plate, and before long the waitress bustled over with the iced tea and a check for $10.25. She didn't ask if I wanted dessert and must have recognized, from long experience, a kind of stunned, unfocused look in my eyes. "Four pieces of chicken," she said. "That'll do it to you." But it was delicious, I told her. "Isn't it good?" she said. "I like the chicken here."
There's a lot of likable chicken in Sussex County. When I finally bobbed and weaved my way across the beach traffic, I found Smith's Family Restaurant, a big open room with walls decorated with countrified knickknacks. Out came the chicken—darker than Doyle's, with a thicker, crunchier crust. I bit into a drumstick and found the skin crispy, delicate, without a trace of grease. The meat was moist, but the breading was crunchy enough to hear in your head. When I was done, I kept going through piles of bones to nibble off more bits of crust. And it cost $6.50—what you'd pay for an imported beer in some places. And once again, I wanted more.
I wanted more in other ways, too. I am fascinated when people talk about making fried chicken, the work, the effort involved. "My mom's Southern fried chicken was always the best," one friend recently wrote to me. "Nothing else compares to it. It was battered with milk and flour and cooked very slowly in a frying pan. The trick was to stand over it for at least 45 minutes, turning it constantly. So much work!"
I can't say if homemade pan-fried chicken is better than what I had in those restaurants, but anything prepared by one person and freely offered to others has a quality that transcends flavor. That kind of meal is a gift. And although I'd had some dandy meals in my travels, I decided that a gift, after all, is something that by definition you can't buy for yourself.
So I'm going to take another crack at making fried chicken and, assuming I manage to acquire the knack, offer it as a gift to people. I happen to have a real iron skillet, which the author of Classical Southern Cooking says is a key tool. He also insists on using lard. I'm not really sure where to buy lard. But I'm discovering that I'm pretty good at finding things. Chicken is a big part of my life, and I want to do it right this time.
Contributing writer Matt Freeman lives in Kennett Square, Pa. He is the senior editor of Reading Today, a publication of the International Reading Association.