Nobody wants to hear about your trip to Nashville. By now, we, all of us, the bartender and whomever you walked in with, plainly, even if they’ve never been there, get it. You went, you drove, it wasn’t that far, even, the Airbnb was affordable, everything was clean, more than one person called you “honey.” There was Dixie charm, but not too loud and brass band-y or ghostly or crime-ridden like New Orleans, not too hot like Austin, too gritty like Memphis, too big like Atlanta, too confusingly multicultural like Miami, too Mississippi or Arkansas like, Mississippi or Arkansas. There was a sense of downhome—but no need to step out of a mostly sterile, safe blue bubble. There wasn’t even really a need to leave downtown.
It's the city everyone is moving to, talking about, raving up, listicleing on, gentrifying at unprecedented levels, prompting the likes of the vibe on Todd Snider’s pissed off, get-off-my-lawn and out-of-my-East Nashville Eastside Bulldog album. Still, he’s just another in a sea of songwriters. And on your trip you got some cowboy boots, or looked at some, had a crazy bachelorette party, or ran into a bunch, realized you like country music, for a few days anyways and if you have enough to drink. You went to that place they went to in “Master of None,” you went honky tonkin’, whatever that means. You ate at Husk, tried a meat-and-three a local knowingly recommended, and had hot chicken and, yes, we wouldn’t believe how hot it was.
All of these stories have been told, all of the places are so well known even people that haven’t been there know Prince’s, know the lore of the city’s most famous dish—the mean-spirited, cayenne-piqued fried bird purportedly invented as gastrointestinal revenge on a stepping-out husband.
But here's one, just one more Tennessee tale, evoking the uselessness of Tums, exhibiting the true, unbridled potency of Nashville’s dangerous foodscape.
Somebody I know—the kind of person to make reservations at Husk weeks ahead, to plan the trip to make sure he could see Vince Gill at his weekly Monday night gig, a spicy food fanatic of the sort to research and know exactly what he was going to order, at Prince’s, and then at Bolton’s, to be so excited to first bask and baste in not-too-far away southern soul charm—walked out of his hotel for late, last night drinks on day number three of gluttonous malfeasance, and unexpectedly, suddenly, with great force and aggressive mess, defecated in his pants. By all accounts this was not a slip, but what Larry David might call a “go home stain.”
Disgusting, yes. But doesn’t it also indicate something else?
Maybe a selfless, sacrificial dedication to devouring a culture, a place. An act of taking one for the team—the tribe of curious, gastrointestinal foragers. Doesn’t it maybe get at the hardcore distance runner belief that if you don’t pass out when you cross the line, you could have gone harder? Maybe it speaks to the intensity of the devil hidden in the belly of Nashville’s obvious charms, of staring said devil down. Or is it indicative of worthy visceral toils, the hardwon lessons of a journey, physical pain mixing with adrenaline-pumping pleasure of adventure? Isn’t there something spiritual here, too? Like out of Castaneda. Like taking peyote, and needing to purge, in a movement toward truth. Is this forever-unnamed person a slob, a filthy miscreant unfit for society? Or something of a caloric hero? The Sisyphus of pants-shitting.
“Nashville-style” being KFC-level ubiquitous by now, it shouldn’t be hard to find out. So we set out to trace Milwaukee’s tributes to an overwrought, yes, overdone, certainly, but still most distinct, singularly experiential meal.
Editor's Note: The Foxfire Food Truck varies it's location weekly. See the Foxfire website for an up-to-date listing of locations.
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The Tandem
1848 W Fond Du Lac Ave, Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53205Serving Memphis-style fried chicken these days is like offering Albany Wings, or a Pittsburgh Cheesesteak. But the Lindsay Heights joint’s other-Tennessee city take might as well be called Knoxville-style for all it matters—there simply is no greater marriage of poultry skin crispness and bold, zinging piquant spice anywhere in town. You’d likely be hard pressed to define what distinguishes it from Nashville, and this seems a good enough excuse to include the dish herein. The chicken is a dark, devilish red beast all its own, fitting of a place that seems distinctly unique, evocative of that off-the-strip, not-sure-about-this East Nashville diveness of Bolton’s. Also, like Bolton’s dry rubbed version, it’s less oily, with a grittier, saltier mouth finish, a bit easier on the palate and the pants. But there is still that tingling sensation, a whiff of pain close following pleasure, needing chasing with a cold cocktail—a metaphor of life in every bite.
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Camino
It’s the type of name and vibe of a place you’d likely find one million of in Nashville, what with the bumping blues and rock and million craft beers and tattoos and burger wafts emanating from the behind-bar flattop. And while the Nashville Wings will make neither Nashville nor Buffalo particularly proud—we’re not sure about the ‘sweet’ caramel whiff, and there can be an unfortunate lack of crisp—there’s something about the fiery, burnt amber sauce that’s inescapable, addictive, a side that’s begging to be repeatedly penetrated by French fries. It’s really an inspired spinoff kind of Nashville gravy, a little jazz riff atop the country roots, which can best lead to a little customer improvisation itself: the classic, griddled, no-frills quality-beef burger is an act of delicious grease simplicity, and the best thing on the menu. Boldly top it with said sauce, sweat and smile.
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Hot Head Fried Chicken
2671 S Kinnickinnic Ave, City of Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53207You wouldn’t know it from Yelp—not that you’d know much of anything from Yelp—but Hot Head deserves credit for two major things. Formerly Bumstead Provisions, the owners of the Kinnickinnic Avenue grocer/deli/brunch/small plate spot admitted things weren’t going well, and set out to reinvent themselves as restaurateurs rarely, actually never, do. But capitalism is overrated in the shadow of food talk. And more importantly, they are really the only ones in town attempting a straight ahead, oil-dripping, stomach-socking plate of Nashville-style, plated fried chicken. The buttermilk brine is housed in a thick, wet, dripping breading, rampant with cayenne-y oil and deep, hurtful spice. Its lacquer coating is halfway between red and black, a medley hinting at both blood and death. Even if some inside meat hunks can be a bit soft, and there is occasional premature separation between meat and skin meaning another minute in the fryer might be in order, it’s that crisp, crumbly, scorching bite start—sided by a sliver of dill pickle acidity—that makes it worth it to occasionally go a block down from Vanguard. And there it is at the end—you look down, and see a sopping, shimmering absorbent depository of white bread, glistening in red grease and gristle and regret, like a sponge soaking up the bad decisions of your caloric life. What you do is eat that sponge. Then drink some water. And tell yourself whatever happens, existence is short, and underwear is cheap.
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Palomino
One of the frequent missteps of the Instagram world of food as identity performance is the stacked-too-high burger. Cultivated and catered to pixel domination, you’ll often come across such a monstrous model, frequently topped by an egg, sometimes framed next to somebody’s head for scale reference. Yet, despite mouth-watering prospects and the ubiquitous accompanying, “This” post, if you can’t detach your jaw, more than two minimally-topped patties is too much for bite consistency, for burstage abatement. That’s why we prefer Wendy’s, for most things, not least of all their approach to the calorie porn aesthetic—the patty steaming and poking out from its bun home seductively. Wide instead of high. A long, slow meat survey rather than a jaw exercise. These are the attractive optics behind Pal’s somehow underrated, crispily brilliant “hot fried chicken sandwich.” A thigh asserts itself, beckoning, showcasing consistent, crumbly, dark golden flakes, hiding tender, still-juicy insides, with zest and just-right sass lent by an expertly crafted, Frank’s-centered homemade hot sauce which creamily splashes with mayo, the whole package housed in a buttery, egg-washed brioche. Yes, really, it has almost nothing to do with Nashville, yet it’s a term now owned by the city, and whether it is “Hot Chicken” or not, it is chicken, and it is hot. But not in the pass-the-Pepto way. It’s the hot chicken you could take home to mom, the one with a reasonable haircut and structure in life. It also might sneakily be the best sandwich in town, and of the bunch here, is easily the most just right calculus combo of fried-then-sauced flavor.
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Foxfire Food Truck
Milwaukee, WisconsinWalking down Logan or Potter Avenue, a gentle summer storm clearing in the growing darkness, the metallic black shimmering hulk of a food truck before Burnheart’s, it’s easy to feel all the promise of all the beers and jams and unmade friends behind the dark wooden bar door, inside the truck’s spicy andouille po’ boy or pork bahn mi. It’s a simple, quiet corner that holds all the hope Milwaukee might muster. And then you are half deep into a pint of hazy hops and someone plops a steaming wedge of spicy bird in front of you, and you realize no matter the endless headlines clamoring on your phone, no matter the quietude of corner bar escape, good or bad, things can always get better. The hot chicken sandwich, found outside the bar here in warm months, is a thick, jagged-edged brick of inner tenderness—the rare chicken sandwich that is actually about the chicken: moist, succulent, the things you imagine for your home when you fire up the grill, the things to ponder the elusiveness of as you turn off the propane tank again. Crisped dark red breading holds everything together, not really yelling, just prodding the tongue on its own.
In fact, you might think it could have more spice, and then you catch your nose dripping steadily, snot dangling precariously over a Toppling Goliath Ale. Maybe the whole could have more structural integrity, but that helps maintain focus—there’s no time to grab a sandwich Insta post in the too-dark-anyways bar. The acid snap of the multitude pickles, buttery sveltness of a quickly warming, generous mayo glob, bun too busy clinging to life to interfere in the taste—yes, there’s an actual careful, cumulative subtlety to the ragged beast. But right on the verge of figuring it out, you look down and it’s gone, only a few flecks of fallen skin on the parchment paper, and there’s no hope but to signal to the bartender for liquid answers.
See Foxfire's website for their location schedule.
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The Vanguard
The bar where you’re most likely to hear somebody talking up a recent Nashville sojourn, to somebody about to go there, everyone served by a bartender back from a recent band tour there, also touts the craziest, Fieri-est, most irresponsible take on the town. Behold, with Man Vs. Food-type reveal: a beastly behemoth of fried chicken in link form, dancing with evident cayenne and paprika, doused in mayo. It’s a little disgusting. Even for this proponent of fat guy food as fine art, of spicy comfort fare being the tool toward pain-free moments of blue skies and the dead coming back, it’s actually more than a little disgusting. But this far in, to the list, to life, if we’re doing it right, surely we’re already blurring the lines between sensibility and actual living experience. It’s at least less dangerous than skydiving. Or Conejitos mystery meat. It is huge, fatty, spurty, tangy, greasy on the way in and out. We order extra hot because anything worth doing is worth doing with more hot sauce. Maybe remind yourself that it’s at least not another red meat order. Or that chicken is the vernacular of meat, the universal yardbird that unites us all across socioeconomic platforms. Whatever helps. Because this is like the menu form of the grown-up version of that guy, that girl, the one your mom warned you about in high school. It’s all the things your doctor haughtily denigrates, right inside a bun. And if that doesn’t make it sound more enticing, maybe you’re not living your best life. Or, at the very least, you’re not remembering the mistake-erasing technology of the modern washing machine.
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