Chickin' it in the ATL: Part 4

Special Note:
Until now, our quest for the best fried chicken in Atlanta has only covered classic down-home institutions. But these days fried chicken is perpetually popping up on the menu pages of upscale eateries. Serious grub pundits suggest that the recession is the reason behind the recent profusion of these in-vogue comfort foods. I, for one, find it ironic that a historic economic downturn could somehow inspire an $18 plate of fried chicken. Now, without further ado:



South City Kitchen is nestled in the heart of Atlanta's faux-hawk district on Crescent Avenue, housed in a historic bungalow amongst the pseudo-glitz of Midtown's under-occupied condo ghetto. Appropriate trappings for a restaurant so tied into all things "New South".

So yes, I'll admit that I went into this tasting a bit biased. The notion of upscale or contemporary southern cuisine has always struck me as a ploy to trick patrons too pretentious to visit unrefined eateries into paying too much for a cheap plate of food.

Those misgivings aside, what arrived at my table was an utterly delicious, albeit slightly arrogant, example of the dish:



The adjective that best describes this bird would be "succulent". The quality of the cut is second to none. I imagine this chicken preferred to called a fowl and clucked with an affected British accent.

VERDICT: 4.65 Napkins

Man Bites Corndog

Captain Ahab and his white whale. Sir Lancelot and the Holy Grail. Harold & Kumar and White Castle.

Much like these men I too have found myself intrinsically drawn to an elusive and mythical object. Mine was the Pallookaville Corndog Cart.



This fabled Atlanta food truck miraculously materializes at local events, serving up legendary gourmet corndogs. And it's notoriously tough to track down. For ages this roving vendor of fair fare has taunted my taste buds.

After months of idle yearning I finally received an anonymous tip that the Pallookaville cart would be making an appearance at the Decatur Book Festival. I knew what I had to do: I had to go eat a giant corndog and then spend the rest of my Saturday in the fetal position on the couch while watching college football in a fried-batter induced food coma.

So fellow Pallookavile apostle Melissa and I, along with Neil for moral and gastronomical support, left Atlanta on our sacred quest. We knew we may have to fight off hordes of bespectacled Decaturites at the Book Festival, but if we could only reach Pallookaville everything would be all right. We would then be able to use the leftover wooden corndog sticks as rudimentary stabbing weapons as we fought our way back to Neil's Jetta.

Luckily, we would encounter no violence along the way. Instead we followed our noses towards the smell of fried, impervious to the literary bounty that surrounded us. Suddenly the skies parted and a light from the heavens shone down upon the object of our odyssey. One final tribulation stood in our path, the cart was apparently guarded by a heavily-tattooed, gargantuan-bearded man beast.


[Would you buy meat on stick from this man?]

As fate would have it, this was a gentle giant. And he came bearing corndogs. Sweet, delicious corndogs.

The first step is choosing your meat: an American all-beef frank, keilbasa, or Italian sausage. Next pick from 4 homemade cornbread batters: classic, cheddar, jalepaño or bacon. I opted for an updated classic: all-beef frank double-dipped in cheddar AND jalepeño batter.

I figured that would be a good jumping off point and I could sample the other offerings from there. It seemed reasonable enough at the time. After all, I did take down a full yard of corndogs at the fabled Florida State Fair of '99. An event which still lives in infamy.

What I was unprepared for was the sheer monstrosity of this double-dipped dog. It took two solid and delicious bites to make my way through the cornbread before I could attain the frankfurter. But alas, I persisted. By the end I was rendered essentially comatose. With warm grease coursing through my veins, it was all I could do to clumsily totter back to the vehicle. Triumphant.



[I am not known for having a small head.]

The Captain is Back!

Like a fryery-phoenix rising gloriously from its ashes, Captain's Blog is back to blow your mind.

There have been major changes underway, including a relocation of our headquarters to New York City. Atlanta was no longer large enough to contain our operation, and it only made sense to move to the global center of media.

The next few days are going to be pretty bonkers. In fact, our insurance company has mandated that all readers wear helmets while reading Captain's Blog from now on. Unless you want this to happen to your melon: