Growing up in Florida: Gas Station Fried Chicken
Warning: post may cause excessive drooling.
Note: this may not be an exclusive Florida thing, but it is a Florida thing.
I scoff at your chain chicken joints. Church’s (Chump’s), KFC (Kentucky Fried Crap), Popeyes (Poopeyes… Teehee).
I mean, if you’re desperate, you do get fried chicken with the exchange of legal tender.
It fills the void. Maybe satisfies a craving. It's fried chicken, so you never turn it down.
Times may have changed since I moved away from the Sunshine State in 1999, but there was only one place to get the most mouth-watering fried chicken.
Your local gas station.
At most places you could fill your gas tank as well as your happy place tank by grabbing a two-piece with a side while gassing up.
I happen to be intimately familiar with this slice of heaven because I used to work at one. Let’s step behind the counter for an exclusive behind-the-scenes tour.
But first…
It’s a piping hot summer day in 1983. I'm riding with my mother to work at the Step Saver gas station she manages. It's near the water tower on US1 in Cocoa. A prime spot. It's a large station for the time with 24 gas pumps.
I'm 14, and she has decided it's time for me to start working instead of lazing around all summer. My father delivered beer so no chance of working with him.
What I'm most looking forward to is the food. Mom's station has a full hot bar with some of the best fried chicken in town.
When you walk in you are belted with the smell of fried food. The register is on the right, and the hot case is on the same counter, with a gap of about 3 ft for the clerk to work. Not only did you have to ring people up, but you had to help with the deli case as well as the gas pumps.
Being a teenager with a bottomless pit of a stomach, my mouth waters the minute I enter the building. I press my face up near the hot case, not too close because it will burn you.
I look through the grease-stained glass (Pro tip: the more grease on the glass, the busier they are which means the fried chicken is excellent. No one should have time to stand around and clean glass.)
A pan overflows with a pile of crispy, crunchy chicken. There is another large pan of large breaded potato wedges. These two are the most popular at her store. Next to that are two small pans for livers and gizzards. There's a pan of macaroni and cheese (Stouffer's) and some greens - Collard or turnip - cooked in a Crock Pot at the store, and in a hot drawer behind the counter are dinner rolls.
(Cue the angelic choir sound effect)
I look at her with pleading eyes mimicking starvation and she relents, letting me pick out a huge breast to munch on before my shift. Little did I know how sick of chicken I would be in about 4 hours.
She leads me back behind the counter to my station. It's a rectangle behind the register. On the right are two large pressurized fryers and a breading station. A three-compartment sink is straight ahead. On the left are the refrigerators for the chicken and a prep area for the potatoes.
I strap on an apron and get to work on the chicken. It's in 50 lb boxes, all portioned out. We marinated our chicken in buttermilk for at least a few hours which required planning. The buttermilk is tangy and tenderizes the chicken.
The prepped chicken gets thrown into a giant bin of seasoning. Our mix was rather peppery and fried up nicely. I hated this part of the process. When the buttermilk hit the flower it turned into a gooey mush that coated your fingers. Shudder.
I tossed the breaded chicken into the large fryer basket.
There are two large pressurized fryers. I drop the basket into the oil, and then close the lid and crank it shut. It builds up intense pressure to cook the chicken fast and seal in all that juicy goodness.
The fryer scares me. When it is done with the cooking cycle, you have to release the pressure. It roars and spits steam like a dragon, shooting it right up into a giant exhaust hood. I always hated that part.
But, what came out was heaven. You still see the oil dancing on the skin.
We also soak the livers and gizzards in buttermilk and fry them the same way. My father loved these in particular. Livers were passable, but eating a gizzard was like eating a breaded rubber band. Not for me. The hard-core stations have an entire inventory of gross things (of course in the eye of the beholder): pickled pigs’ feet, pickled eggs and giant pickles.
Next up are the potato wedges. I unbox these gigantic potatoes probably grown near a power plant. They are as long as my forearm.
Mounted on the wall there is a potato slicer that looks more like a torture device. Stand up the spud on the razor-sharp blades and pull the handle down to create wedges.
Wedges into the basket, into the fryer, crank it shut. They come out crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.
The work is hot and never-ending. At least until the lunch rush is over and then comes the worst part.
The chicken suit.
Yes, like this:
It’s approximately 145° outside and now I have to put on a deathtrap costume. Mom instructs me to go out to the median and attract customers.
So, here I am on a thin strip of concrete dancing and waving at people. The people who are not frightened honk at me in approval.
Thankfully, there is a mask so I won't die of embarrassment. I think heat stroke will take me first.
I last about 30 minutes before mom calls me back. I run right to the soda cooler, sit, and gratefully remove the head.
“Let me know when you’re ready to go back out there,” my mom says, smiling.
I groan in protest, but a few minutes later I’m back out there.
“You’re young, you can take it,” she says.
Thankfully, I only have to wear the costume for a little bit longer. Mom is worried about the color of my face.
Eventually, I get to run the register, which is a cushy job, except for the gas pumps. With all of the pumps, quite a few people tried to drive away without paying.
Before I know it the day is over.
I’m exhausted and smell like grease and sweat. Mom says she’s proud of me and that makes everything worthwhile. She slides me $25 which will go towards video games, soda and candy bars.
One of the last times I was down in Florida I took a flyer on a gas station in Butler, near the Georgia/Florida border.
Sure enough, when I walked in, I was greeted by a hot case with a greasy window and a couple of pans of fried chicken.
I ordered a two-piece to go. It came in a white box with grease stains.
And instantly I was back breading chicken and looking over at my mom helping customers with her eternal smile and kind voice.
I miss her tremendously.
But that sadness instantly dissipates when she points out the store window toward the highway.
There’s some sucker out there sweating to death in a chicken suit.
Thanks for taking a trip back with me. One of two things I'm working on is a memoir of all my jobs. It's interesting to look back to see how things influence you. No matter what job you have, there's always something to learn.
As always, thanks for your support.