In Barberton, the merits of these three chicken joints are debated as hotly as the boiling lard in which they fry the chicken. This is true: the unique texture and flavor of Barberton chicken is the result of frying in pure lard, which results in a perfectly browned outer skin, with tender juiciness inside.
We also learned that Barberton restaurants serve cheap American beer, which we found out the hard way: we drank it. All of it. By the time we got to our third restaurant, Whitehouse Chicken, I was doing obscene gyrations in the parking lot, really threatening to blow our cover as secret restaurant reviewers. I was not just reviewing the bird; I was flipping the bird.
What you cannot see from this picture is the lewd crotch grabbing.
A Hummer pulled up alongside me. "HEY!" shouted a large-breasted brunette from the passenger window. "It's my birthday!" Apparently it was her boobs' birthday as well, because they looked like they were out to have some fun.
This sounded like an invitation to a party, so I drunkenly started to crawl through the passenger window, into the Hummer.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" she shouted as the Hummer took off, with me hanging out the side of the tank-like vehicle. Inside, a college-aged guy was driving, with his two buddies in the back looking simultaneously amused and confused.
"Is it really your birthday?" I asked calmly, struggling to contain the situation. The Hummer was now picking up speed down the parking lot of the strip mall; I could either crawl the rest of the way inside, or try to wrench myself free.
The girl was screaming, so I thought everyone was having a good time. I screamed dramatically, and threw myself from the vehicle, far enough into the parking lot so that I wouldn't get run over by the Hummer's lunar lander-sized tires.
Laughing riotously, I crawled back to my friends, and the five of us stumbled across the street to Whitehouse Chicken. The Hummer pulled up beside us again. Without hesitation, I climbed onto the roof of the enormous land vehicle, as if I were piloting a tank.
Now with an astonishing two miles per gallon!
"What the FUCK are you doing?!" shouted the guy, getting out of the vehicle. "Get the FUCK off my car!"
"It's not a car," I corrected him, "it's a Hummer."
"John, get off the car," Evan intoned. "Time to get down."
"I'll kick your ass!" the kid shouted.
"I'm just saying," I responded, "if you're going to pay all the money to drive one of these things around, you might as well refer to it as a Hummer."
"Get the FUCK OFF MY CAR!" he screamed, wanting desperately to punch me, but unable to reach the roof of his own vehicle.
"IT'S NOT A CAR!" I shouted. I felt this was an important point.
"GET DOWN!" my friends shouted, dragging me off. I fell onto the sidewalk -- it's a long drop from the roof of a Hummer -- and collapsed in an intoxicated heap.
At this point, Jay stepped in, trying to calm everyone down. "It's okay," he reassured the driver, "he's applying for a job at Whitehouse Chicken."
Hearing this, the kid stormed over to the door of the restaurant, which by now had drawn a crowd of people. "I don't know who you guys think you hired," he screamed at the manager of Whitehouse Chicken, "but this guy was in the parking lot, doing dirty dances, climbing on the roofs of people's cars..."
"I have no idea who this is," the manager said, which must have been tremendously frustrating for the kid to hear.
Just one of the horrified onlookers.
While they fought, I thought it would be funny to get into the Hummer and drive away. Can you imagine the kid, already emasculated by a middle-aged restaurant critic, now chasing his own Hummer down the street as a guy in a chicken suit drives it away? That's just the antithesis of everything it means to be a Hummer owner.
I got to the driver's side door, but his girlfriend had locked it. "Get away from the car, or we're going to kick your fucking ass," one of the other college students hissed at me from the back seat. It was hard to take the threat seriously, though, from behind a locked door.
The driver, who was still furiously arguing with the manager about how I MUST have been sponsored by Whitehouse Chicken, because why else would I be in a fucking CHICKEN SUIT, now turned to find me trying to jimmy open his lock. "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY CAR!" he screamed, running over.
"It's not a car," I corrected him, as he slapped my beak. I have to repeat this point: he slapped my beak. That's assault and battery. And if you're a fried chicken, it's salt and battery. His girlfriend unlocked the door, and he climbed in and drove away.
We never did get into Whitehouse Chicken to conduct our final taste test, because after that, the manager wouldn't let us in. And sadly, we didn't even get in a proper fight, because the college students drove away.
Chickens.
Apparently this place has pretty good food.
So if you want to taste the best fried chicken in America, take a visit to Barberton, Ohio. Just be careful what you wear. Apparently, these people have a love/hate relationship with their chicken.