Note to Gussie: The lettuce leaf and the orange slice have no business in this particular context.
When I was producing a radio show back in my early days in Los Angeles, a stop at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles became a weekly Sunday night ritual. Having Roscoe’s as a late-night option was truly a godsend, especially since the Pico-La Brea location was midway between K-Town and the Westside. With four other locations in Southern California, Roscoe’s is legendary, and rightly so. The place is the model of consistency — always perfect — with devastating fried chicken. The waffles are also brilliant, totally by the book, served with the right kind of whipped butter, and accompanied with warm maple syrup.
Since I’ve relocated to Northern California after a two-year stint on the East Coast, I often daydream about Roscoe’s, wondering why I had limited my visits to once a week. As my readers know, I’ve eaten quite a bit of fried chicken around the Bay Area, resigned to the fact that great chicken and waffles may be a little too much to ask. Even so, I’ve had pretty good fried yardbird at the Boon Fly Cafe, SPQR and Ad Hoc (listed in my personal order of preference, by the way). Likewise, I’ve sampled slightly disappointing efforts at Solbar, the Blue Jay Cafe, and House of Chicken and Waffles in Jack London Square.
Truth be told, Roscoe’s represents a Platonic version of fried chicken that will always be my favorite. For better or worse, nothing will ever compare to Roscoe’s, and it’s not just because of the chicken. There is a certain context to Roscoe’s — a time and a place — that can never be duplicated for me. I don’t wish to bore anyone with my life story, but living in Los Angeles — practically starving right out of college and then living reasonably well during the dot-com boom — there were certain comforts that I could always rely upon, no matter what my situation dictated (Paco’s Tacos on Centinela was another stand-by, as was Versailles Cuban on Venice).
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Although I’ll always be hung up on Roscoe’s (and hopelessly so), Gussie’s Chicken and Waffles in San Francisco offers a terrific version of their namesake dish. Just like Roscoe’s, Gussie’s version of fried chicken features crispy, rendered skin with just a hint of breading, and the meat has been perfectly cooked on every one of my visits. As for the accompanying waffle, I suspect that the recipe was probably cribbed from Roscoe’s itself. In fact, despite my deep prejudices, there are moments when I can almost convince myself that Gussie’s might almost be Roscoe’s equal. Almost.
