Everything is comfortable down south except...the hot chickens.
It was 4:30 am in the morning. We had an early flight to catch. Our best friend Daniel is getting married. Let’s give him a proper send-off.
But first…coffee. ☕️
Nashville Tennessee, here we go.
With 10 bros around, everything becomes a competition. As our plane took off the runway, I made mental preparations for some casualties this weekend. The flight was tight but short. After two hours, we landed in Nashville, Tennessee, good old USA. The weekend was meticulously planned out by our good friend Uncle Sam. On the agenda was the infamous Nashville Hot Chicken. Daniel, our bachelor melts in front of chilly flakes. This one was going to be legendary. Alan our residential foodie had his eyes set on Hattie B’s. Their hot chicken was recommended to us by several of our Uber drivers.
But first...beer me bro.
After a few breakfast beers, brunch cocktails and spiked freezes our group prepared to obliterate our organs with some delicious hot chickens. As we stumbled out of our Uber, we were met with the dreaded line outside of Hattie B’s. Ten bros semi-conscience drooling on the street over the waves of hot chicks. The smell teased your tastebuds. So close yet so far away.
Reconnaissance indicated a minimum of 1 hour wait time. ⏰
God saved Daniel that day. Thanks to our Uber informants, we took the local approach. Head home and order the chickens inside... “They’ll deliver it to yall. It’s not like your ordering power tools or nothin.”
Ordering
Back at the Bro Diamond Compound, we placed our orders and waited patiently. Our order consisted of a plethora of different levels of spices. Nothing like playing Russian roulette with 10 bros and 3 bathrooms. The rolling thunderstorms were poetically foreshadowing our demise.
Ding Dong! 🛎
Hattie B’s Hot Chicken came in a black and red sealed paper bag, like some kinky sex toys.
Their spices levels range from Southern [no heat], Mild, Medium, Hot!, Damn Hot!! And [STCU] Shut The Cluck Up!!! [Burn Notice]
We ordered a shared platter of STCU wings, for educational purposes.
I ordered the [Dame Hot] dark meat. Let me explain how it went...
Warning: Don’t try to smell the chicken. The powdery dry spice rub will lift off into your nostrils and ruin your day.
Appearance
The American sized chicken thigh sits intimidatingly with a red almost pulsing demonic glow that sets off your natural defensive instincts. The single slice of white Wonder-bread is pinned down by the masochistic chicken thighs while being slathered by its fiery run-off liquids.
Hidden in the black box of doom is a single slice of a sweet pickle for your temporary relief.
You’ll welcome the sweet crunchy refreshing pickle in the soon post-apocalyptic wasteland. The crust on the chicken is hard and arousing. The bumps of crust give shelters to pockets of deviant spices. The flesh is completed seal behind a combative layer of peppery, chilly, maroon coloured dredged crust. When you pick up the chicken, you’ll notice the powdery residue coating your fingers. With your orifices covered, you’re now committed to the experience. Fumbling with the chicken will only release more red scorching juices. It will slather you in chilly oil or drip down to that helpless piece of wonder bread. Brace yourself and hold your breath before taking your first bite. Inhaling the dry rub is as problematic as snorting it up your nostrils.
First bite
The crust shatters upon contact, releasing the juices of chicken and spices. The juices and crust fall to the back of your throat, plop themselves onto your tongue like a worn futon. Your mouth instantly salivates as a response to the invasion of aggressive flavours.
The spice rub combined with chicken juice and your saliva forms a molten lava paste which begins in encroach on the back your tongue.
Swallowing up sensible real estate while leaving a path of agony and chaos. Tears begin to form as endorphins rush in your head to whisk you away from the pain. You’re emotionally moved by this dish. The previously protected chicken now exposed, shows its glistening, slippery, wet complexion through the volcanic breach. Steam and repressed essence begin to woof towards your now fully cleared nostrils. Amidst the fire alarms going off in your head, you smell the wonderful scent of sweet wet brined chicken. The flesh surrenders to your tugging.
A fiery song begins to play in your skull, turning up the volume with every bite.
The unrelenting crunch of the crust forms the bass notes while the chicken sings the soothing melody. The dry rub besides heat is smokey, peppery and bitter. It dances with the sweetness of the chicken. There is a minute note of slight acidity which is enough to make you go back for punishment. After about three bites, your head is exploding with neurotransmitters. The aftermath effect feels like a culinary morphine drip. While your mouth is in agony, your mind is blessed. It's like going on vacation after setting your neighbour on fire.
So this was the Dame Hot…
STCU
There is a reason why there are levels to this game. Shut The Cluck Up is the king of the hill. Working our way up the spice latter, we cheered and touched wingtips. What’s noticeably different between the two levels of spices is the amount of pain. The STCU is here to assault you. The spices are on the offence and the chicken almost gets left behind. You’re chewing and chewing hoping to move past the agony. The pain doesn’t ease. The dry dredge on it is more powdery. Your mouth work to contain the spice with juices and saliva but falls short. When the spices are aerated, it’s weaponized. After the nuclear impact, the fallout dissipates in the back of your throat. Your openings begin to seize. Throat, eye, lips and ears begin to claw inward. Your brain is throbbing now. The body begins to shake and you get up to paste around praying the spices will pass soon. It takes a minute before you reach peak experience. STCU puts you in kind of a psychedelic trance, like looking down a stretchy tunnel. Soon you’re reaching for the fire alarm.
Diet Coke that’ll do the trick. 🧯
Something sweet would take the edge off. Boy was I wrong.
After setting 10 bros on fire, we’re clocking around like a bunch of cocks with our heads cut off. Amongst the post-apocalyptic dining table was a silo of relief. The coke bottle sat there invitingly, cap off and ready to assist. As I chugged down the sweet melody, I can faintly hear giggles. The carbonated sweet bubbles helped to uplift the lava paste temporarily. Lifting the spices up from the back of my throat into my throat was what the coke managed to do. Oesophagus on fire. Pain begins to irradiated from the base of my neck. Setting the foundation on fire, my head was ready to plop right off. Good old Uncle Sam was up to shenanigans again. This time he’s poisoned the drinking well. A single word ran across my mind. Casualties.
Conclusion
After you enjoy/ endure the hot chicken, make sure to wash your hands. Don’t touch anything that you don’t want to light on fire. Uncle Sam got me good. It took about 10 minutes to regain my ability to speak. We had a good laugh about it all. Nashville has certainly given us some really hot chicks to remember it by. The weekend was still long and the war has only just begun. What was traumatic about the coke incident is the juxtaposition of something refreshing and agonizing. I really need to brush my teeth. I think I’ll borrow Uncle Sam’s toothpaste. It’ll be a real shame if it’s not minty fresh. Now to find a toothpick.
Special shout to Daniel. 🎩\
How Hattie B's make dem chickens.