Yesterday morning Laura and I went to look at a house for sale, mostly because I'm friends with the real estate agent and I want to maintain a relationship with him so that he'll continue to show me stuff, partly because the house in question is significant architecturally and not at all because I'm actually in the market to buy something.
The neighborhood in which the house resides would be described to any perspective buyer as "gentrifying." Laura remarked that living in this particular house would be akin to residing in a Coo Coo Clock. Joey the agent said, you'll either love it or you'll hate it. I didn't love it. While driving around looking for the house we passed by the nearby Roscoe's and I could tell Laura's interest was peaked. Perhaps there is a benefit to this neighborhood, she remarked.
I am a little ashamed to say it took me almost two years of full time living in LA before I had my first experience with Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles. I'm a breast man, myself, so I went with the Carole C. Special with sides of eggs and collard greens. I found the chicken to be moist and tender, although not quite as delectable as the chicken found at the less publicized Honey's Kettle. I like fried chicken and I like waffles, and each of these items were better than good but less than great at Roscoe's. I don't really understand the pairing, but I must be in the minority as the place was packed when we arrived a few minutes before noon and sported a line out the door when we left just after one.
We drove home and I opened a bottle of Columbia Valley Riesling (Laura has a propensity for the wines of her home state and I feel like a lazy, warm, spring Sunday calls for a dry German white). Half way through the bottle Ms. Crowson admitted to me that meals like the one at Roscoe's often make her feel inclined towards becoming a vegetarian. Fried chicken is just too difficult for her to enjoy. Personally, I like picking every last bit of meat off the bone, so I'll take her carcasses any day.