I was a teenage Fried Chicken Cook

I was a teenage Fried Chicken Cook

You do remember the 70’s don’t you?

Smell is supposed to the most primal of the senses. For me a cerebral sensation from that decade is the sweet smell of golden fresh fried chicken rising up on a hydraulic lift from the depths of an industrial pressurized deep fryer.

The smell, and anyone who has ever opened a bucket of hot KFC knows what I’m talking about, inundated my skin, hair and clothes with greasy funky goodness. It trailed out of a vent and attracted customers from miles around like coyotes to carrion.

In 1976 one of my first jobs ever as a fourteen-year-old youth was working as a chicken cook at the Salem Avenue Famous Recipe Fried Chicken in Dayton, Ohio. The figure of $2.28, minimum wage at the time, comes to mind.

How did I get this job? I had a friend a couple of years older who had a yet older neighbor friend recently out of high school who was the assistant manager. We were all teenagers, the assistant manager probably 19. My friend’s name was Ed and his friend was known as Smed. Ed and Smed, no lie. Ed urged me to give Smed a call and I soon had myself a J O B.

I learned to cook chicken. Raw chicken came delivered in bags already cut up. You know. Breasts, thighs, wings and drumsticks. There was a big stainless steel table with a sink like recessed container. This was filled with huge quantities of flour and measures of salt, pepper and some others. Paprika. Garlic and celery salt. Into the breading we, I, dumped raw meat and mixed it around with bare hands thoroughly coating each piece with breading. Thick thigh meat cooked thoroughly if the bone was dislocated with a snap.

“Snap the bone, Mike and there won’t be no pink spots in the meat,” Smed explained.  He was smoking while he trained me and a fleck or two of ash got mixed in with the breading. This was not a problem because no contaminant could retain viability in the inferno of hot grease that awaited the uncooked bird. The next step was to arrange the pieces on wire racks so as to maximize coverage of surface area. Breasts spooned thighs and wings nestled up against drumsticks. Slide the racks onto the shelves and hit the button lowering the chicken into boiling oil hell. Lock the lid shut and set the timer for ten minutes. When the bell rang the chicken cook (me), opened a valve releasing a controlled jet of greasy delicious steam. That was the smell that brought in the customers.

Keep the warmer stocked with plenty of hot chicken so the girls working the front could fill the orders. That was basically it.

I tell you what when that shit came fresh out of the cooker it was delicious. I know, I know, fried chicken is not exactly health food. No matter. I couldn’t resist snapping a snick of golden crispy breading off a fresh breast and giving it a gobble. I especially liked fresh deep fried chicken gizzards. They were chewy and with that golden-brown breading were quite tasty. People came in special to get gizzards.

The manager was a guy named Gary. Gary was married to a very attractive girl I knew of from school. She was a senior when I was a freshmen and she had no idea I existed.

He complained about her a lot.

“Mike, If I wasn’t married to her I’d have ten Corvettes!” he’d say.

I’d nod in a sympathetic way. Being only fourteen I had no actual useful knowledge to contribute to any conversation about women.

They had a kid together. One time a dude knocked on the back door of the restaurant. He had a stolen color TV still in the new original box, for sale for cheap. Gary gave the dude cash money and carried the carton into the kitchen feeling all happy. TVs at that time were massive with huge heavy picture tubes “This TV is for my kid!” he exclaimed pleased with himself that his infant son could now enjoy color TV. He set it on the breading table and slashed it open. Inside was wadded up packing material and a few bricks taped together.

Gary was pissed and ran out looking for the TV salesman.

Haha!  The other kitchen guy, Junebug, was amused and cracked up! Junebug was a cool guy. He had these big round 70’s glasses and liked to play “way out” funk music. George Clinton, Funkadelic and Parliament and that kind of stuff. I didn’t mind. I think he was usually stoned but I had little clue about drugs at that point. Smed played Derek and the Dominoes “Layla” for him.

Derek and the Dominoes “Layla”

“That’s a white boy’s love song you punk!” Junebug teased him. It was OK because we were all friends. It was cool to have that first experience of chilling with coworkers. Belonging to a select subgroup is a basic human societal thing we all need.

Junebug drove a Dodge Charger muscle car and so did all his brothers. I went by his West Dayton house once and sure enough there were like four Dodge Chargers parked outside.

Another time when Smed or Gary weren’t around one of Junebug’s pals pulled up to the loading dock and they loaded bags of raw chicken and flour into his trunk. “It’s all good, Mike,” Junebug reassured me, “He taking it to another store.”

Oh yeah, another friend Glen also worked there. We worked together only for one day before he quit. Glen showed me how to make coleslaw and to quickly prep a big yellow onion. The way to properly chop an onion, a technique I still use today, is to slice the ends off and holding in it the palm of your hand, swing the cleaver right into the peel so you can skin it with one fell swoop. “One fell swoop” is a useful phrase that also applies to getting a basket of popcorn from a popcorn maker in taverns where they supply all you can eat self-serve popcorn.  Mix the cabbage, mayo, relish and all the other coleslaw ingredients together in a huge mixer chopper in twenty gallon batches. Use a scoop to pack it in pint and half pint containers. That was coleslaw.  Glen was a funny guy who spit into the coleslaw and was a pretty good self-taught artist. He created a huge pen and ink mural of the Battle of Minas Tirith.  After accidently spilling red paint on it he gave the whole mural a crimson wash giving it an awesome bloody gothic look. Glen is now a successful tattoo artist who gave me my first and only tattoo when I was sixteen.

Gary and Smed liked me because I was a diligent worker, never late and who quickly learned how to work efficiently at cooking and the clean-up duties of the restaurant. In retrospect, Famous Recipe was low paying, unpleasant work which explained the high employee turnover.

One busy weekend night we were shorthanded.

Should they call in Junebug on his night off? was the question.

“You’ll be ok, you got Mike,” Gary assured Smed and they both regarded me in a confident way. It was cool to earn the trust of my bosses but it was horrible having to cook and clean up the restaurant alone. The restaurant could get a rush of big orders so it was important to keep the chicken coming. Smed had to help out front so it was just me frantically cranking out the product. After closing I was wiped out but still had to drain and clean out the big deep fryer, wash all the pans, take out the trash and mop the floor.  Smed helped me finish and after locking up the store we sat on the greasy loading dock smoking cigs and drinking beers. Which was cool, being fourteen and pounding cold Schoenling Little Kings Cream Ale in 8 ounce bottles with my boss and trying not to gag on a Red Box Marly.

Smed was grateful to have me working back of the house that night and said so. He was a smart manager because he understood that workers will respond if you compliment and recognize their effort. That’s how you get loyal employees. So, I felt positive about doing a good job even though Famous Recipe got double the work for the price of one that night. They should have paid me double, instead the lesson I learned was: “If you are good at your job you get more work.”  Both of these things are life rules I’ve seen repeated in every workplace up to the professional setting where I work today. Doesn’t mean you should be a slacker on the job, your co-workers will hate you, it’s just the way it is.