Photography by Kevin A. Roberts
It’s mildly excruciating. You languish in a line that stretches beside an open kitchen. You’re staring at that chicken, which emerges from bubbling oil glistening, browned to caramel crustiness. Your budding impatience blossoms. What’s taking that guy up there so long to order?
Consider using the daunting wait at Southern productively. Study the chalked menu, which holds some distractions: sandwiches, fried bologna, a Cuban, the “Hogfather.” But save those dishes for another visit. You came for the chicken.
For years, spicy legends have been deep-fried in such magical places as Prince’s and Hattie B’s, making Nashville a destination for fried chicken devotees. Former Quincy Street Bistro chef Rick Lewis saw a chance to bring the piquant poultry to St. Louis. He took it.
“Nashville style” implies a tangy, vinegary marinade; a dredging in seasoned flour; and a post-fryer dip in liquid fires fueled by cayenne and other peppery flames. Southern’s version backs off the incendiary levels of some Nashville joints. There are six versions here: original, mild, medium, a soy sauce–tinged “General Tso,” hot, and a “Cluckin’ Hot” that lives up to its name. Wisely, you choose to order à la carte, sampling all six styles. On return visits, you can opt for the available plates—combinations of white and dark meat—or half a bird, all for significantly less than what you’ll pay for fried chicken at more upscale restaurants.
Photography by Kevin A. Roberts
Sides? Fried chicken without mashed potatoes violates both local ordinances and common decency. Southern’s version comes with skins and just enough chunks left to provide texture, along with a smooth brown gravy. Diced salt pork lends a smoky undercurrent to collard greens. Green tomato wheels are lightly pickled, then battered with a cornmeal crust. House-made andouille slivers spark a rice–and–black-eyed pea Hoppin’ John. Looking for a wine list? Uh, no. But there are Excel sodas, with those delightfully floral notes of cane sugar that have the distinctive terroir of Breese, Illinois.
Southern sits cheek by jowl with the phenomenally popular Pappy’s Smokehouse; in fact, the lines for the two places sometimes intertwine. Southern’s interior is a combination of factory floor and country kitsch. There are only about 40 seats, some at long tables that you might share with strangers.
Though tempting, it’s a mistake to compare Southern with the Nashville icons. That’s because it’s in a class by itself.
The Bottom Line Amazingly good spicy-hot fried chicken and Southern fixings are served in an ever-packed midtown space.
