I didn't exactly grow up eating grits and fried chicken, but sometime between two trips to the Carolinas and Georgia, I grew enamored with Southern comfort food. Ribs, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, shrimp and grits, mac and cheese, collard greens -- call me Forrest Gump.
The best ribs I've encountered in New York thus far have been at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, but these are no more than a stopgap measure in a blue state.
Unlike ribs, which I've given up on finding in the Northeast, I remain optimistic about fried chicken. You can understand my excitement when I learned that a take-out Southern food place had recently opened in the West Village. Late Friday night, I hurriedly finished up at work so I could make it to Dirty Bird to Go before it closed. Alas, the name turned out to be the most creative part. The fried chicken was serviceable yet inferior to that of Popeye's (although undoubtedly prepared in a health code-compliant setting). My sides of garlic kale and slow-roasted potatoes tasted like salty garlic kale and salty slow-roasted potatoes.
What this says to me is that I need to find my way back to Savannah, fast for three days before, and then belly up to the buffet at the Lady and Sons. Fat Elvis didn't eat nine pieces of fried chicken on our first visit to be polite, you know.
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