I fancy myself something of a fried chicken connoisseur after living in Houston, the most spiritually Southern of Texas metropolises. A city that practically runs on Raising Cane’s and Chick-fil-A, H-Town has a gusto for fried chicken that rivals New York City’s infatuation with pizza. Lord knows I still dream about chicks in Texas. Namely, that gochujang-glazed fried chicken from a Korean food truck outside 8th Wonder Brewery, those golden breasts crowned with brisket at my local dive in EaDo, and Bar Bludorn’s fancy-pants fried bird dressed with peanut butter gravy and fig sauce. When I moved to New York City, I was willing to part with cheap gas, Tex-Mex, and balmy winters. But proper fried chicken, amigo, was where I drew the line. Thank God for Jacob’s Pickles.
As I Lay Frying — William Bawk-bawk-bawk-ner
An Upper West Side institution, Jacob’s Pickles slings Southern comfort food with New York City panache. Its Instagram feed—a montage of cheese pulls, maple syrup cascades, and soft serve studded with pickles—is so prurient it should require an age-verification tab. The spectacle could bring a man afflicted by the munchies to tears, yet it’s just as titillating for sober-minded gourmands. The kitchen makes eight types of pickles, ranging from hot-sour cukes to dilly green beans and candy-red beets. The molten skillet cookie with ice cream and the strawberry biscuit shortcake in a jar suggest what might happen if Michelin visited the State Fair of Texas. And an insider secret from a whiskey writer: the bar has one of New York’s finest stashes of Wild Turkey and Michter’s.
I took my girlfriend to Jacob’s Pickles a few weeks ago for a recovery brunch after her birthday party. In my expert opinion, pickle juice remains modern medicine’s most efficacious remedy for overindulgence. I lack the institutional funding to verify this hypothesis, but I suspect Jacob’s divine brine, prescribed alongside chicken and waffles and a little hair of the dog, could revive the comatose.
I had dined at Jacob’s enough times to know that filling up on appetizers was folly, but since it was my girlfriend’s first spin, I felt duty-bound to introduce her to the famous mac and cheese. We supplemented it with a puck of tuna tartare bathed in ponzu and topped with thinly sliced pickles. Next came the fried chicken with challah French toast and the classic chicken sandwiches, both essential rites of initiation. I ordered the smashburger with extra pickles to vary our proteins.
I am known as a trencherman and a card-carrying member of the Clean Plate Club. But even my formidable appetite—which could give Joey Chestnut a run for his money—finds its limits at Jacob’s Pickles. We made it through roughly half our spread before calling for a to-go box. I ordered a postprandial dram of Michter’s because I knew brunch was not quite over. The birthday cake soon arrived: a molten skillet cookie topped with ice cream and a festive sparkler.
Whether due to pickle juice, chicken grease, or bourbon, my girlfriend’s condition had improved markedly. We took a long walk through Central Park before heading back to Brooklyn with our leftovers. I was already thinking about the fried chicken tacos with cheddar and guac I would make for dinner.
