Widow-Maker Chicken

Look closely through this window.

See that girl with her hand waving in the air? Just behind the painted image of a crown-wearing dude holding a plate of steaming chicken?

Yeah, well, imagine being told that the best place to eat in Nashville was this little shack. Now, envision that you walk in, and some diva is dancing like a stripper, hollering things like, "They came for some hot chicken, but they're getting a side of hawt ass!" 

Welp, y'all, that's Nashville's foodie scene for you, and I PROMISE you that it is nothing short of glorious.

 

The BigMoose (aka Chris) and I made a quick pit stop in the country capitol yesterday, as I was presenting at a psychology conference held in the great music city. Of course, I couldn't let the trip be solely academic, because that'd just be sad. 

Before we left, one of the BigMoose's co-workers ensured us that the ONLY place we needed to visit was a dive called Prince's Hot Chicken Shack. We Googled it, and sure enough, the reviews ranked the place as stellar and then some.

Now, I don't have adequate wordage to describe to you how shank-in-your-kidney this place looked. For realz, folks, it seemed shady as shit, nestled as it was in the you're-probably-going-to-die neighborhood.

But. Oh. Good. Lawdie.

LOOK AT THIS!

 AND THIS!

 AND THEN THIS!

It might not look like much, but what you're seeing is the best damn fried chicken on the entire freaking planet. Seriously. No hyperbole. This chicken up and blew my mind. 

But....

No. 

Really.

When they say Prince's Hot Chicken is hot, they mean that you will take one bite and then your lips will burst, your eyes will water, and your complexion will take on the color of a freaking fire truck, which you will need just to douse the inferno traveling through your intestines. 

At the counter, the owner (who was just about the most charming and sweet person I've had the pleasure of acquantifying) gave us a warning.

"Now, y'all know this chicken's spicy, right? Like, I wouldn't recommend you order anything hotter than the medium."

My momma didn't raise no fool. (Actually, scratch that. I have three siblings who could arguably be considered less than intelligent. So, let's just say that maternal genes won on one out of four, with that one being yours truly.) I ordered the mild. Big Moose tapped into his alpha male and ordered the medium.

After one bite, he started crying. 

No.

Again.

Really.

His eyes puffed up, and tears creeped out of the corners. But the fattie in him just couldn't stop. He kept gnawing his way through the pile of pyromania. At one point, he actually said, "I think I'm going to vomit. My body is in distress right now. Like, I want to keep eating it, but my face won't let me. I've never had anything hurt so good." But trooper that he is, he kept at it, my friends.

And this was the result: 

 

Okay, so the real result was BigMoose waking up at 1 a.m. and abusing our poor hotel bathroom.

Anywaaaaay...

TL;DR*: Prince's Hot Chicken is ah-MAY-zing. And hot. Like, set-your-mouth-on-fire-so-good hot. And strippers practice their dance routines in the restaurant sometimes. But then they get kicked out by the management. Oh, and you can order a BOWL OF PICKLES with your meal, and even though that sounds wonky, it's crazy delicious. Oh, and it's cheap as hell. Like, $5 for your meal. And there's sweet tea! 

TL;DR2: Sorry about the first TL;DR. It got long. Which is why I bet you didn't read it. 

*For those who don't speak Internet, this means "Too Long, Didn't Read."