Monday 10 August
Lynne and Tom said they'd heard of
a new place where you could get good fried chicken, which was enough to have
Holt salivating a week in advance. So
tonight they drove us through a Cincinnati monsoon to the appropriately-named (at
least for Holt) Son of a Preacher Man.
The place is 50s retro casual, with
quick and friendly service. To start, we
ordered bottles of beer (a nice range, with jamjars to drink from) and a
platter of savory south shore crab dip, with plenty of toasts to share.
Our mains were decent bourbon bbq meatloaf,
served with mash and a well-made buttermilk biscuit, and 3 pieces of "Sunday's
best" fried chicken, served with another biscuit and choice of sides (we
got collards, and they were fine representatives of the species).
The dark meat chicken was perfectly juicy,
with crunchy, tasty crust, but the breasts were so heavily brined that Holt and
Lynne were drinking water all night. So
listen, Preacher Man - lighten up on the salt!
We went back home for more water -
oh, and glasses of applejack, not to mention Graeter's coconut chip ice cream,
to sweeten it.
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