Prince's Hot Chicken in Nashville, TN

The next day JP and I reluctantly bid adieu to Tommy and his shrine to bachelordom. After thirteen meals of barbecue in six days, my body needed a break. What it needed was a salad and a treadmill, but what it got was Prince’s Hot Fried Chicken.

Prince’s is a Nashville institution. They fry their chicken in cast iron skillets, adding the requested level of spice to each order. The heat ranges from mild to extra hot and they cook each order from scratch, which often takes 30-45 minutes. They have vending machines for drinks and a few tables at which you can dine.

I will always remember my first trip for three reasons. First, its location is just off Dickerson Road, which at the time was notorious for hookers. We passed two on the way.

Second, as my friend Bill and I walked up to the line of people waiting, we asked innocently enough “is the chicken really that hot?” A grizzly looking man in camouflage scowled at us city boys for a minute before begrudgingly responding “you bet yer dick it’s hot”. To this day Bill and I still use that line.

The third reason I’ll remember Prince’s was that the chicken wasn’t just hot, it was incendiary. Bill ordered a full bird “as hot as you can make it”, which we would later realize was just plain dumb. When it arrived the lady at the counter looked at us and said “boy you gonna get the mud butt!”. Within minutes I had sweat pouring down my face and snot dripping from my nose. The heat became so overpowering that I actually thought my lips might be peeling away. I remember that the only relief came from Bill’s intermittent deep exhales, which would blow cool air on my face. When you are in desperate situations, it’s amazing how you take comfort in the most awkward of pleasures.

I called ahead as we drew close to Nashville, ordering two medium breast quarters to go. When we got home and unwrapped the almost crimson colored treat, it proudly sat on top of two pieces of white bread, which soak up the grease and spices. As I bit into the crispy chicken, my mouth was met with a mix of salty, spicy, pan fried goodness. Then the heat hit me. I explained to JP that the levels of heat were kind of on an “ish” scale, and that today’s medium was definitely trending towards hot. As sweat started beading up on my forehead, I knew we were in for the taste bud equivalent of an ass kicking, and we got a good one. The burn kept building with each bite, but with a lot of milk and water, we made it through, right down to the bright orange, grease soaked piece of white bread goodness.

After you eat Prince’s chicken, your body goes into a state of shock. Your stomach has turned into a volcano of fiery acid, you’re bloated from the ridiculous amount of water and milk you drank to cool the flames, and you have this crazy rush of endorphins from the peppers. In a sadistic kind of way, I really like the feeling.

If you’re ever in Nashville, I recommend making a jaunt to Prince’s, or better yet, come in the summer for the Hot Chicken Festival and sample all of the Nashville area’s best hot chicken.