I like the name Rapscallion for a restaurant.  I had a vague awareness of the term, something a rad pirate might say, perhaps, with overtones of fondness for an unrepentant, attractively dashing rogue.  It has been open for awhile but we hadn't made it yet--newish trending bistros are hard to snag in Dallas on a Saturday night at 8 or 9, but since we had theater tickets I booked a late lunch for 6:00.

I thought about donning a blouse-y Seinfeld shirt, a peg leg, and an eye patch, but sanity prevailed and instead threw on some shorts, flip flops, and a white short sleeved shirt that seemed like something a handsome sailor might wear if you squinted your eyes.

Even though the host was charming and full of smiles I felt the need to explain to him why we were having dinner so early so he wouldn't privately think of us as arthritic seniors.  I said we were going to a play, and he asked which one and I said "It's Only a Play" and he looked confused and said yes, but what is it called, and I said it was called "It's Only a Play" and we both guffawed along with the canned sitcom laugh track.  He showed us to our tiny table since the gorgeous hostess was busy flirting with every adoring set of eyes in the room.  To our surprise, despite the early hour, the restaurant was pretty full and by 6:30 totally jammed with SMU students, neighborhood hipsters, and a straight foursome who threw off a vibe that there might be some Brokeback Mountain action going on between the husbands.

At first glance the menu was slightly bewildering.  Every last ingredient was listed for each item, which made them sound like each plate was painstakingly arranged with tweezers.  I hate that. But the plates going by us looked casually if artfully composed so we asked our very competent server (whose name was something like Manny or Manfred or even possibly Pete) a bunch of questions and he confidently explained the dishes and they sounded less fussy so we cast aside our fears and ordered away.

Plate Licking Good

Bacon & Oysters was a standout.  A crispy fried oyster topped a small rectangle of house-braised bacon, with a few strands of pickled fennel on top and alongside, a schmear of cauliflower chowder puree.  It was original, inventive, and plate-licking worthy.  We also had a half dozen East Coast raw oysters, which were sufficiently briny and produced a most satisfying slurp.

We shared the next course too, which was an Heirloom Tomato and Grilled Texas Peach Salad with lemon yogurt dressing and a sprinkling of pistachios.  Yowza, that tasted like Summer on so many steroids it will no doubt be banned from the Summer Olympics in Rio for doping.

Now That's  Burger

For my entree I ordered the BBQ GlazedTri-Tip Steak with Marble Potato Salad, Crispy Pickled Okra and Horseradish Chimichurri.  Tri-Tip isn't that popular outside of California, but it is my favorite cut from a cow carcass. Terrific!  D had the Grass Fed Burger with Three Cheese Pimento and House Pepper Bacon, which was bigger than his head, and it came with sweet potato chips.

Despite the absence of pirates we weren't disappointed, and left feeling like two very full and impish rapscallions.  Definitely will be back.

**Update on Street's Fine Chicken.  Second time back and all the wasp wasted 28 year old guys had been replaced by people in stretch pants and oversized shirts.  The guy next to me had Brie Macaroni and Cheese, Mashed Potatoes and Gravy, and a Biscuit, which he kept "buttering" with his macaroni and cheese. No meat, no protein.  I bet he really likes his shirts starched, too.

So, it has finally been settled, once and for all.  Why, you ask, did that chicken cross the road?  Because he'd always yearned to be on the delicious side of the Street.  (Sorry.)

About 50 years or so ago, Gene Street opened the first Black Eyed Pea restaurant on Cedar Springs Road in Dallas.  It was a smaller chain, primarily in the south, and one that I studiously avoided.  Everything was fried and the vegetables were flaccid and all the tables seemed kind of sticky. They were known for Chicken Fried Steaks that were larger than the plates they were served on, and drowned in cream gravy. (I think this is also known as a Heart Attack with Sauce.) Apparently, Mr. Street sold the chain many years ago and made a deep-fried fortune on it, but remained the owner of the real estate and collected rent from the new proprietors. A couple of generations passed by, and folks were now obsessed with kale and quinoa and those awful Kardashians, and the chain went kerplooey and no one cared.

Then, like the proverbial phoenix rising from its ashes, a new Street concept sprang up in the former B.E.P. location on Cedar Springs Road, which in five decades has evolved into the epicenter of Dallas' gayborhood.  Street's Fine Chicken is another entry into the current mania for fried chicken in the USA, and please indulge me when I say it might just be the Cock of the Block.

Great Balls of Fire

We started with Pimento Cheese Fritters, which were crispy hot on the outside and melty spicy hot on the inside.  They reposed on top of Tabasco Agave Jam, which I would have thought was just plain Chili Oil if I hadn't read the menu carefully.  They were pretty good but I doubt if I'll ever order them again, as they were sort of a transient thrill with no long-lasting craveability, like the song Call Me Maybe.

Love Me Tenders

The Fried Chicken, on the other hand, was indeed fine. The batter was seasoned with herbes de provence, and the chicken had been nicely brined. Crispy hot on the outside, moist and delicious within. I had the 2 piece breast and leg, which was plenty, along with some airy whipped potatoes and a little dab of peppery cream sauce.  I finished both pieces in about fifteen seconds and finally had a chance to look around.

The restaurant was packed with 28 year old guys in tank tops, board shorts, flip flops and five-days-a-week-at-the-gym bodies. They were all named Evan.  I was astonished that all these apparent health nuts whose bodies were temples of worship were chowing down on fried food (but using knives and forks.)  Then I remembered being 28 and immortal and absent-mindedly crammed a huge spoonful of Brie and Smoked Gouda Macaroni and Cheese in my mouth, silently lamenting my long gone 28" waistline Levi's.