H
ow you know you’re in a trendy fried chicken joint: they describe their oily poultry range as “a whimsical menu”. Their bill of fare asks daft questions such as “Our passion for fried chicken got us thinking … what if chicken were beef?” And nobody says: “Oi bossman, how many chicken wings can I get for a pound?”
Mother Clucker’s chicken drumsticks.
Photograph: Anna Gordon for the Guardian/The Guardian
From Manchester’s
Yard & Coop
to London’s
Bird
, trendified chicken has exploded in the last few years. Their shtick may still basically consist of battering poultry, then dunking it into boiling oil, but according to them, the quality of their produce and specialist cooking techniques ? not to mention the price ? make it a cut above your local
Chicken Cottage
. But unlike the ubiquitous cheapo chicken shops whose neon signs illuminate our high-streets (there are
8,000 in London alone
), there are no youngsters within.
Except, that is, for the
Cat and Mutton
pub on Hackney’s Broadway Market. Because tonight, we’ve sent a panel of pre-GCSE age chicken aficionados into hipster central for a taste test of resident street-food fried-chicken purveyors
Mother Clucker
. Their approach to fowl? Serve it “New Orleans-style”: coated in a secret spice blend, paired with lime mayo and homemade hot sauce. Usually it goes down a storm with east London hipsters. Their chances of success with kids who utilise the area’s imitation KFCs as de facto youth clubs? Not so clear.
But if anyone knows fried chicken, it’s these youngsters from the
Mile End Community Project
and Tower Hamlets residents’ group
SocietyLinks
. Last summer, their love of “PFCs” ? their generic name for budget fried-chicken shops (due to the fact they’re often called “Perfect Fried Chicken”) ? saw them make a short film about their appeal that won
an independent film award
and attracted the attention of
Danny Boyle’s Shuffle festival
. Then they organised
an all-day event featuring Chicken Selfie competitions, panel debates and a taste-off between local shops
. When it comes to chicken, these kids are no small fries.
“I want this to be tender; I want it to be juicy; I want it to be moist,” says the panel’s self appointed “main chicken expert”, 13-year-old Nahid. “I’m looking for a good burger,” explains 14-year-old Jack. “I like it all,” adds Mazad: a gastronome whose commitment means he visits chicken shops five times a week. Another member of our poultry judiciary closes the opening statements with a solemn pronouncement: “Large lamb doner and wings!”
Then a cardboard bucket appears and talking ceases. Inside are chicken wings that have had so many treatments it sounds like they’ve been to a specialist day spa. First the pool of tea brine; then the buttermilk soak; finally the batter dunk. And then another batter dunk for good measure. They’re crispy without being dry, moist without being soggy, and coated in a thin, aromatic batter that has hints of paprika, celery salt and a slight limeyness. They’re not bad at all ? our panel, however, are not entirely appreciative. “Urgh!” offers Nahid, croaking like a dying parrot. “It’s plain, man,” scoffs Jack. “It’s got no flavour to it!”. Then the panel commence debating the saturated fat quantities.
The experts confer.
Photograph: Anna Gordon/The Guardian
“What is this? It ain’t even fried!” yells Nahid, as a bucket of chicken strips turn up distinctly less oil-sodden than your usual grease merchant’s offerings. “I’ve got no oil on my fingers! I can’t even tell if I’ve been to a PFC or not!” complains school uniform-clad Samid. For lots of people, I point out, this is a good thing. “No way! The oil’s what makes it taste good, man!” counters Nahid. “Yeah, you know someone’s been to a PFC when they start wiping their hands like this,” chuckles Jack, as he starts rubbing his palms on the front of his trousers. And the back of his trousers. And his jumper. “That’s the PFC move! It’s the greasy dance!”
A chef arrives with a bucket of chips (verdict: “They’re more healthy or something. They don’t taste right inside.”) and suddenly finds himself summoned to divulge the price of a dish of six chicken wings. “FIVE POUNDS?!?” the panel roar in unison. There’s so much squawking that it becomes impossible to make out conversation, but snippets include “I get chicken and chips for one pound, bruv!” and “I’d want 25 wings for that!”
All looks lost for MotherClucker. One by one the panel explain that an absolute must of fried chicken is cheap pricing: that “it’s a bargain”; that “you can get a meal for one pound”; that you get “loads for almost no money”. It’s looking as if no matter what Mother Clucker do, they’re not going to be able to compete.
Mother Clucker’s chicken burger, the Cluckwich.
Photograph: Anna Gordon/The Guardian
And then the burger arrives. “That’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” whispers Samid. “That’s nearly bigger than me!” Someone yells: “Jeez! That is sick!” and then the panel get all serious: “The salad’s a nice touch,” offers Samid. “It’s crispy, bruv!” says Nahid. While Rohan, probably the most serious and considered member of the panel, summarises the feeling of a group who are struggling to fit their burgers into their mouths. “Mmmmffffffff! Mmmmffffffff! MMMMFFFFFFF!!!”
As the evening draws to a close, the panel come to their verdict. A couple of judges pronounce themselves converts, hailing it “more filling” or “better quality”. For some, it was just “too different”. Most, though, proclaim their loyalty to PFCs, largely due to the bargain-basement prices. And with that, the evening’s over.
Until, that is, a group member pulls out a guitar, plays a “bespoke chicken song” and the panel start spitting chicken-based raps such as: “I eat chicken 24-7/Like I will every day when I’m in heaven.” Ten minutes later, I notice that the bucket of chicken wings has been absolutely decimated. There are bones in front of every panel member. And, as Nahid pulls his jacket on, I overhear him confiding in one of the other judges. “This is bare nice, you know!” he grins, pulling his jacket on. He steps out of the door, stops, turns and offers a closing statement: “I got chicken teeth for days!”
Maybe trendy chicken does appeal to diehard chicken-shop teens after all. Even if it at first it seems a case of batter the devil you know.
The wing of truth: our experts’ verdicts
Samid, 14
So devoted to chicken shops that he writes raps about them. Also has exacting standards about a venue’s sauce provision.
“What they do at PFCs is that they put the wings at the bottom of the box and then the oil from the chips and all the sauce seeps through on to them. These guys should think about that.’
2/5
Jack, 14
Chicken burger specialist. Likes them so much that he ate one in Wetherspoon’s en route.
“I like that it’s crunchy, but I prefer the oiliness I get at KHF ? my favourite chicken shop. That’s probably because I’ve been eating it since I was nine years old, though. If I’d eaten this every couple of weeks for five years, I’d probably prefer the taste of this one.’
3/5
Nahid, 13
Expert negotiator. Can haggle an extra wing from a chicken shop proprietor by usage of the term “bossman”.
“The strips are good, man. You put a bit more oil on this and it’s basically KFC.”
4/5
Mazad, 14
Eats fried chicken five times a week. An authority on all forms of poultry: fried, fried and … fried.
“The quality of the chicken’s nice. It tastes better than the soft, greasy stuff I normally get. The price is too high, though.”
3.5/5