It’s the closest thing I can find to my grandma’s fried chicken, and that means more than a tasty drumstick. I remember warm summer evenings playing on the backyard swing set with my cousins, then hearing grandma yell from the back porch that it’s “T-iiiiiiiiiii-me for dinner!”. We would hustle inside and place our little bodies in the big wooden chairs of grandma’s dining room table. Steam rolling off the big bowl of mashed potatoes, a hot-pad sitting under the pot of dark green beans fresh out of the garden. Grandpa was always served first, then the big plate of golden-brown chicken was heading my way.
The chairs at Stroud’s are heavy wood and the potatoes – creamy blonde just like grandma’s – come to the table piled high and piping hot. But the reason the crowds have been visiting this landmark log cabin for 30 years is the beautiful, pan-fried chicken that arrives at your table on a big platter crisped to perfection. It’s some of the most pristine chicken I’ve seen, and among the juiciest.