Kangsen Feka Wakai
It was during a conversation about diet with an acquaintance, a Houston native and self-professed Ifa priest, when the subject of chicken came up. He told me he’d been a vegetarian for over a year when he started having the dreams. Night after night he would see them crowing, pecking and running. He said the recurring dreams about chicken were causing him to lose his balance, new age parlance for emotional turbulence, and focus. That alone pestered him. So he did what any priest would do. He consulted the oracle.
“What did it reveal?” I asked.
“Ogun was thirsty for blood, chicken blood. He needed to be fed,” he said solemnly.
“What did you do?”
“I ran to Popeyes and got me some chicken for Ogun.”
We both laughed for a few minutes. Funny experience I thought. But I didn’t believe him. Not one bit. Okay, maybe I did believe the part about the presence of these delectable birds in his dreams but the part about Ogun being thirsty was not convincing, especially coming from this pseudo-devotee of the iron god. You got some fried chicken for yourself I thought. Ogun didn’t have shit to do with anything.
I know because I have had chicken dreams of my own.
Wink. Wink.
Indeed, dreams of roosters crowing my name at dawn. I have had endless nightmares after stuffing myself with fried chicken.
Anyways, fried chicken is big business in the business friendly city of Houston. H-town did not earn its place as the fattest city in the fattest country for two consecutive years by eating broccoli and tofu.
In Houston, the competition to fill empty and growling stomachs is stiff. It is a brawl that pits corporate giants like KFC against Popeyes Chicken against Church’s Chicken against the hundreds of non-branded greasy spoons and the countless Chinese joints that fry the greasy delicacy. In this fiercely competitive industry, the good old boys and their corporate mascots win. The fact is no greasy spoon, crunchy fried chicken or not, can match the appeal of ten pieces of dark meat for $3.99 offered by the big boys in Popeyes or Church’s. Hardly any could, especially in the ghettos, the frontline of this greasy battle.
Another strong contender for the battle for Houston [stomachs], is the iconic and family owned Frenchys Chicken, a formidable gladiator in the fried chicken showdown. On its mission statement, Frenchys claims its Creole style chicken is filled with flavor, richness and heritage. All the above are true and fried chicken connoisseurs and food critics in Houston all agree that Frenchys has the muscle to out-fry and out-flavor its competition. The aroma hits you from a mile away so it is no wonder that after three decades, Frenchys has become an institution.
At Frenchys, devotees wait in line, sometimes expending their entire lunch hour just for a fix of chicken, that southern Louisiana fix—a mélange of Spanish, French, African and native recipes and spices of Southern Lousiana. It is a journey into the entrails of history. It is a craving that puts the stomach under the spell of a feathered genie, during which, the mind is rendered numb and only one thing and one thing alone can restart the circuits of reason: Frenchys fried chicken.
A few years ago while undergoing a diet change; I took a relatively long hiatus from the edible but non-flying bird. Tilapia, farm-raised, the package reads—as if it is carrots, became a fixture in my weekly menu. That did not last. Before long, I was under the spell and found the most self-convincing excuse: too much of ‘farm raised’ fish could not be good for you.
The chicken gods were calling, or according to our priest and his oracle, Ogun was thirsty. A deity’s desire notwithstanding, I was back eating chicken; fried chicken, BBQ chicken, baked chicken, chicken noodle soup, chicken rotti, chicken burritos, chicken enchiladas, curried chicken, stewed chicken and chicken patties.
It was the renewal of an old friendship. It was reacquainting my palate with a familiar taste.
Chicken and I go way back. A typical graffi upbringing is not without the ritual Sunday afternoon kati-kati [char roasted chicken cut into tiny pieces, sautéed in palm oil and devoured with fufu] on the menu. In fact, I have dug the earth that swallows their blood after their throat is slit. I have watched them kick their last kick before joining countless others in the realm of nothingness. I have known roosters and hens. I have befriended them. Given them names and watched them grow from chicks to matriarchs and patriarchs on the yard. But above all, I have sucked on their succulent bones.
Anyways, after rejoining the cult of southern fried chicken eaters, I became inflicted with the priest’s condition. I had a strange dream of my own.
In the beginning there was Fernando Botero walking in the back alleys of Bogota. This was centuries before Pablo, FARC, paramilitaries and foreign military aid. He conjures a rugged but tamable landscape that can carry the weight of his overweight creations. A new country is born. But it is no immaculate conception. She is no virgin. But a grand enough canvass for John Biggers to people it with empire builders dressed in white robes. Africans trapped in the dark caverns of Dali’s daydream. Suddenly, a black and white photo of Warhol falls from a glass wall as I walk along a row of headless chicken factories and boneless fish farms. I walk into a conference room full of psycho-nutritionists and overweight teens. I am witness to the concluding arguments in a class action law suit against a fast food chain over the content of what it calls chicken. In the courtroom, there are chicken wings everywhere: spicy, garlic, hot and extra hot flying from the tiniest crevices in the old building.
In the morning, with no oracle to consult, I ran to the grocery store and bought me a package of farm-raised tilapia and a whole ‘natural’ chicken.
Kangsen Feka Wakai was born in Cameroon. He resides in the US.
Kangsen, nice article! I really enjoyed the humor and was happy that you addressed an important issue that I feel many of our peers in Houston do not take seriously. You really articulated the guilt I feel every time I drop some dollars at Frenchys, especially at that new location on South Main near Reliant Park. I continue to be amazed at how often my fellow Houstonians eat fried chicken without serious regard for their health. This bothers me. I was raised on a vegetarian diet but began eating meat from about age 10, but not regularly until I was about 15. I love chicken, beef and seafood, but feel very fortunate to have undergone a healthy upbringing that helps me make wise dietary decisions. My girlfriend, who grew up on an unhealthy diet, has benefitted from my knowledge of good healthy eating. It is easy to talk to her about diet because she is close to me. But as you know, it can be very difficult to convince Houstonians of the need to limit their fried chicken intake. Also, I liked the way you dropped some of your own experience on us regarding the butchery of chickens. The way that you describe your personal relationship with the birds and right after admit your appetite for their flesh is classic. Concluding the piece with your scary dream, and rather comforting awakening was a nice close.
Posted by: Benna Sayyed | December 28, 2008 at 07:06 PM