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.