BIRD IS THE WORD: Burkholder's Country Market - Spring Mills, PA

"I believe that fried chicken is North America’s Hospitality Dish. I spell all those words with capital letters. I don’t care whether it’s a king, a preacher, or a potentate who comes to see you, if you give him good fried chicken with mashed potatoes, chicken cracklin’ gravy, and hot biscuits and vegetables, you’re giving him the best the American table can offer"
-Colonel Harlan David Sanders, founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken

CONCERNING THE AUTHOR AND FRIED CHICKEN:

The quote above is from the man whose image is synonymous with one of the nation's most maligned fast food chains, the ubiquitous KFC. A place where, ideally, you could get a bucket of fried chicken and mac and cheese, cole slaw, biscuits and other southern staples. An oasis for those unafraid of diabetes or cholesterol levels, a compound in which one can enjoy the flavors of the traditional southern hospitality the area is *apparently* famous for (in my experience, everyone in the south is slow as fuck and can really dress up being an asshole in airs. Sorry southerners.) When a man turns his back on his baby, you know they fucked up royal.

(though I still eat there from time to time whatever I'm not perfect)

Realistically, KFC is usually inedible. Colonel Sanders himself referred to the gravy of the franchises as something like brown paste water. To make matters worse, KFC is often sidled up with Pizza Huts and Taco Bells in the same building, two other purely American ventures which devour ethnic cuisines (in these cases, Mexican and Italian) and regurgitate them back into disturbing postmodern pastiches of what our taste bud and stomach's id craves: nacho cheese and white flour; vegetable oil, a vague yet depressing reminder of garlic, and liberal amounts of a poor impression of parmesan on top of a mass of refined white flour. What's even worse, when these three elements combined the final product is far less than the sum of its parts: it's a surefire route to a night of stomach problems and another brick in the wall of a disturbing lack of faith in humanity, the type of which would depress even the happiest-go-lucky optimists. 

That being said, there's a saying about pizza: "pizza is like sex, there's no real BAD pizza." The same could be said for fried chicken. Who among us can say they have never reached for a dried out bag of chicken tenders at the local grocery store, despite knowing that it will be a dry heap of barely chewable meat and breading whose only hope for moisture comes from a prepackaged miserable flavored form of high fructose corn syrup? Who among us can say they have never absolutely pounded a 10 piece bag of fried chicken that had been sitting there since the morning? 

If you claim you have not, you are a liar, or someone I do not want to know. Your faults are features too, and this is a fault among all decent people. Grocery store chicken is a fact of life, and if you do not accept this fact, you are lying to yourself. 

That being said, fried chicken when done right is one of the most marvelous things known to man. The quote above is from Colonel Sanders' autobiography, an excellent read for anyone interested and a particularly interesting read for those in the hospitality industry. If a man of his clout believes fried chicken is the best the American table has to offer, it is certainly worth its own series, whether be from restaurants, grocery stores, or where ever one finds this ubiquitous and American gem. So, as the deigned denizen among us who seeks out deliciousness, it is my job in the series of BIRD IS THE WORD to inform you of where I find the best fried chicken (besides Popeye's and Bojangles. Royal Farms is up for debate.) Fried chicken is also a large part of my childhood: when family gatherings happened as a young child, my father would bring wholesale amounts of fried chicken, enough to feed everyone, and that flavor sticks with me as much as the dewy humidity of the trees and the smell of chlorine from water parks contained in a local gem of an amusement park. (Idlewild, in Ligonier, in case anyone was wondering.)

Now, on to the good stuff:

BUTTF*@# EGYPT AIN'T THAT BAD

I live in Boalsburg, Pennsylvania with my father, right outside the boom town of State College, where the mammoth main campus of Penn State drives most of the economy. We often take day trips to other little towns around us to search for antiques. Today we were hunting for a desk. After finding a good deal in Lewisburg, we headed back down 45 and hunger struck with deafening force upon my stomach, for all I had eaten that day was four shots of espresso and a glass of juiced vegetables. My body thanked me for that. I couldn't have that, and thus it was time to prove to myself what I seem to always prove to myself: I'm an asshole. This time to my body, specifically.

Along the way is what appears to be a quaint country market called Burkholder's. While one might pass it and not think twice, it is in fact one of the best grocery stores I've ever been in. It's produce is always ridiculously fresh and well priced, its baked goods are sublime, its locally made chocolates are to die for, and its butcher really knows what he's doing. I mean, look at these steaks:

Look at that marbling. Oh man. 

Anyway, the real gem of the place is its hot bar. As much as grocery store chicken is a fact of life, often times a quick hot bar dinner from the little shop down the street is necessary. Its just that this one happens to be made by a bunch of Amish and Mennonite types and man... it's good. 

Okay, so, doesn't look like much, does it? And you're thinking: why is this guy going on and on about a hot bar at a grocery store? Well, do you like homemade meatloaf, four homemade soups, homemade gravy, stuffing, and best of all hand breaded deep fried chicken with cornflakes in the crisp?
If you don't, leave. This blog is not for you. There's 7 billion people on this Earth. I don't need you.

I opted for two pieces of fried chicken (a thigh and a wing, natch), some stuffing with gravy, meatloaf, and a side of that narcotic-like mac and cheese known only in microwaves and grocery store hot bars.

The meal was good. I don't have to tell you that. The fact that I'm even bothering to write about a hot bar in the back of a grocery store in the middle of nowhere should tell you how good this is. I have had few revelatory experiences regarding fried chicken: the thighs here are pure immersion in the magic that cholesterol, fat, carbohydrates and meat can do together, a happy drowning in it. The meatloaf was delicious as well. The Mac and cheese is the same as it is everywhere: the fuckin' best. Even Anthony Bourdain claims a weak spot for the nuclear orange-yellow lumpy paste. Some things just aren't meant to be understood.

That being said, it's always a glorious grocery store containing many different indigenous central PA specialties, such as having way too many fucking brands of potato chips that are all delicious, scrapple, bacon from a place in Lancaster that will make people renounce religions and codes of ethics, the steak previously mentioned, and GOBS!

The picture above was taken at about 2 p.m. I imagine all of those gobs are gone now.

Anyway, if you think you're too good to eat at a grocery store hot bar to get some killer fried chicken, they do have a dining area and even at an off time it was busy.

As strange as it might be, the most comforting foods can be found in very comforting places: you just might not think to look there. Good thing I did, I'll tell you that much. The chicken travels well for take out, but eating it and seeing a bunch of Amish and Mennonite people chowing down around you really makes the experience much more grand. So if you find yourself on PA route 45, stop in there.

Oh, and you'll totally see a couple Amish buggies around. Just a forewarning.

Q: HOW DID THE AMISH WOMAN KEEP HERSELF HAPPY?
A: TWO MENNONITE. 

CHICKEN BOY SAY: SO GOOD I STRIP IT TO THE BONE
Burkholder's Country Market
107 Market Drive, Spring Mills, PA 16875