RIP, Chicken King

TNG is taking a much needed break from Dec 19-Jan 4. TNG will return with new content on Jan 5. Until then, please enjoy this post from the past year. Original publish date: 3/27/08.

So this is one of the weirder posts you will see on TNG, but I feel a little compelled.

Al Copeland opened his first "Popeyes Famous Chicken and Biscuits" in 1972. He died last Sunday at age 61.

I grew up on Popeyes fried chicken because I grew up poor in South Louisiana. As you may know, poor southern people share a special relationship with fried food, and in an area of the country that asks a bit more of its fare, no place nurtured that relationship quite like Popeyes.

Some of my earliest memories involve Popeyes, and some of my fondest, too. Friend to family, palate, and budget, It was my grease soaked oasis--the first place I wanted to eat as a kid and as a college student. I remember when "Popeye the sailor" was the actual symbol of the company, and I've taken a familial interest in following the marketing campaigns over the years, each one different yet all progressively prostituting my ethnic group's name and culture in order to sell their product. Annoying? Yes, but forgivable due to consistent proclamation of a singular, bold, and incontrovertible truth: They make good fuckin' chicken.

In spite of attempts to maximize my health and incorporate more fashionable food into my diet, I maintain no shame in my ability to tear up a 3 piece and a side of red beans. I know the secret ingredient that makes their biscuits so good, I know how long it takes to fry liver before it gets too hard (not a menu item outside of Louisiana), and I remember when the rice dressing actually tasted like a Cajun made it. For me and the area where I was raised, Popeyes is more than a chain. It's a Louisiana cultural institution.

So, with genuine feeling I give respect to Al Copeland, the playboy chicken king who scrapped his way out of the New Orleans projects to create a 700 store empire. Famous for fast living, an extravagant style, a feud with fellow New Orleans resident and novelist Anne Rice, and numerous acts of both outrage and charity, he and his story are bigger than life, and typical Louisiana.

Thanks, Al. You made great fuckin' chicken.

Oh, and he had a helicopter called the "Chicken Chopper." Somebody hit the awesome button for me.