Tag Archives: southern cooking

Jul 09 2014
6 Comments
Wassup USA?

It’s Called a Chicken Biscuit, and it’s a Piece of Fried Chicken on a Biscuit and it is Heaven

chicken biscuit

credit: chester’s international

Biscuit. Bis-kit. Bis-cut. Biskt. CHI-cken BIS-cuit. chi-CKEN bis-CUIT. CHI-CKEN biscuit. chi-CKEN BIS-cuit. Okay we’re through warming up, just try saying it with me now.

“I’ll have a chicken biscuit.”

Okay, that was pretty good. Try saying it again like it’s 10:23 on a Saturday morning.

“I’ll have a chicken biscuit.”

I think we’re getting there. Say it again, and it’s 10:24 on a Saturday morning. You’re wearing flip flops, wind shorts, and a tank top with an eagle on it. It’s 87 degrees outside but cold as ice inside and you haven’t had anything to eat all morning. You just parked your car in a gravel parking lot that bordered a field that bordered a southeastern forest. Also, add a sweet tea to your order because you’re in Georgia, stupid.

“I’ll have a chicken biscuit and a sweet tea.”

Okay, I think that’s it. You did it. You ordered a chicken biscuit without making yourself look foolish. Congratulations.

I heard a story once about a man who asked what a chicken biscuit was. After a moment of silence, he was told that a chicken biscuit is a biscuit with a piece of fried chicken on it. Lucky him, he got to eat those words. It’s an astoundingly simple dish that confuses people who look for complicated answers.

But there’s no complication here, just some lightly breaded and fried chicken between two halves of a tender, flaky, buttery biscuit. Feel free to add honey to it, if that’s your thing. Or maybe you’d like some hot sauce, or some strawberry jam. At this point, you can make it into your very own frankenchickenbiscuit sandwich because it already has everything it needs to be incredible.

I’ve felt for a long time that the biscuit has not been given the appreciation it deserves across the entire United States. I went to a restaurant this morning in Marietta, GA, where half of the menu consisted of different variations on the biscuit i.e. the ham biscuit, the sausage biscuit, the baked biscuit, the fried biscuit, the chicken gravy biscuit, the biscuits and sausage gravy and so on and so forth.

I went simple and got just a chicken biscuit and slathered honey all across that mother busker. As I took bite after tender, flakey, chicken-y bite, I could only think of how much better off the world would be if they had this kind of delight in San Francisco, and Bozeman, and Indianapolis, and Rome, and anywhere there are humans that enjoy eating food for sustenance, community, and sheer pleasure.

Sure, we’d have to watch what we ate for the rest of the day and not make a habit of eating chicken biscuits for breakfast more than once a week, but we could do it. If we can put a man on the moon, if we can post millions of pictures of ourselves on the internet and call it a social movement, then we can moderate our biscuit intake.

That’s all I’m asking for. I’m just a woman with a college degree in international relations asking to spread the biscuit love across the US. It’s not too hard, is it?

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Mar 12 2013
9 Comments
Food, Posts about Breakfast, San Francisco

Your Life Coach Recommends Biscuits from the Pork Store Cafe

The Pork Store Cafe on Haight

The Pork Store Cafe on Haight

On Friday March 8th, the last day of the work week and the first day of what was then the rest of my life, I went to breakfast at the Pork Store Cafe.

My alarm that morning woke me in a spiteful way, right in the middle of a sleep cycle. For a moment, I debated whether or not it was worth it and that maybe I should just get a morning breakfast on Saturday. But my strength rallied and I finally got up. The instant my tennies hit the pavement I knew I’d made the right decision. Even better, I felt the breakfast hunger.

I arrived to the Pork Store Cafe at approximately 7:03 am, and about 15 minutes later, some of the most tempting breakfast food was steaming in front of me like a freaking holiday feast. I ordered the two eggs in a tasty nest, which consisted of two eggs over easy gently laid across the most deletable mixture of hashbrowns, peppers, onions, cheddar cheese, and a wild amount of bacon. You’re probably already salivating and I haven’t even gotten to the best part.

When I first walked in the door, I overheard a conversation between the waitress and a certain gentleman who was interested in purchasing biscuits but was being told that they would be another 15 minutes before they came out of the oven. Let me repeat that for those of you who are slow to understand the most important part of stories. He was waiting for a PAN OF PIPING HOT, FLUFFY AS HELL, FRESH OUT OF THE OVEN, HEAVEN BISCUITS.

Of course I had to have them. Lucky for me, a side of these biscuits was included with my meal. They came out slightly after I got the tasty nest due to the fact they were still being incubated by their oven mother, but I didn’t care about their tardiness. When I saw them, I became a believer in love at first sight.

I gently pulled them open in order to prepare them with butter and nearly fainted when I saw the amount of steam that Pork Store Cafe Biscuitscame off of them. The pats of butter melted with love and grace, and I took my first bite. It was one of those experiences when all I wanted at that moment was to be wrapped up in that biscuit for eternity, to have it surround me forever in an eternal embrace of fluffy goodness. I began to wax poetic about them in my mind, “A biscuit as textured and embracing as the hills of San Francisco, a biscuit as tender as a good mother’s love, a biscuit as fluffy as a middle school crush.”

I left that morning inspired, and vowed to never, ever skip Friday breakfasts again. And the biscuits. Sweet Mary mother of God, the biscuits. With the taste of those dear lambs, I believe I fleshed out a little more of my life’s purpose. I suggest you do the same.

This post is part of my general obsession with breakfast, breakfast foods, and the holistic experience that encompasses breakfast. If you want to munch on more of this topic, see I am the Breakfast Whisperer, Oh My God It’s Breakfast in Istanbul, and The Oatmeal that Changed My Life.

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