King of the Golden Fowl
Donahoo's provides finger lickin' comfort and diversity
By: Nancy Powell
I blame my current obsession with Southern comfort foods on John T. Edge, and I mean every word of it. Ever since I picked up his Fried Chicken—An American Story, I’ve lived, breathed, dreamed about every meaty nook and cranny of the golden bird. My quest for the King of all Fowl led me to the preeminent Inland Empire dive for classic flour-dipped chicken (all right, maybe the giant cock in the sky clued me in). Donahoo’s Golden Fried Chicken, my friend, is the real deal greasy, dribbly mess that only artery-clogging thrill seekers could truly appreciate.
Mr. Donahoo first cranked out his birds for the masses 60 years ago, creating such a hullabaloo that people from B.F.E. would drive out the lonely stretches of highway just to get their fix of Southern comfort. Even today, as the cock in the sky stands vigil over the aging shop, not much has changed at the Pomona location, not even after the Chinese came and took over the franchise five years ago. Unlike the donut shop revolution where a classic American icon has became diluted and mundane in the name of Asian capitalism (read: cheap ingredients for maximum profit) life goes on as it had in the flaming Irishman’s time—the promise of a good, old-fashioned meal that continually perpetuates the smoggy environs of the valley empires. Oh, and did I mention that Donahoo’s deals exclusively in the take-out biz?
First off, Donahoo’s makes Colonel Sanders and Mrs. Knott look like relative amateurs—despite the two Mexicans milling about behind the counter as Chinese women bark their orders to the employees in the back, amidst piles of assembled white boxes. I know I’m in the right place. Maybe it’s that heavy, greasy feeling that hits me as soon as I walk in. It’s not that same feeling of dread I get when I drive to Knott’s only to discover the baked beans taste like Van Camp crap. The menu, as simple as the monotonous white walls that bear it, doesn’t include egg rolls or fried rice or chow mein, but varying quantities of chicken, gizzards and livers. And fries. And simple salads (macaroni, green and slaw). Really, it’s all a fried chicken specialist needs in its tool bucket.
I order the chicken dinner (breast, wing, thigh and leg) for $7.45 and a two-piece lunch special and am soon on my way. Sitting in the car, I gnaw first on a drumstick, then the seasoned steak fries—just the right blend of saltiness that I’m dying for an ice-cold Coke. The chicken is a flaky, golden-brown and well seasoned (hints of pepper and seasoning salt, other spices peaking ever so slightly through). Inside, the flesh is tender and moist, and the juices run down my chin with each bigger bite. So far, so good. Next, I try the slaw, a sickeningly sweet and runny mess of cabbage bits specked by golden raisins. It doesn’t taste as good as other slaws I’ve had, but for some un-Godly reason, it tastes just right with the chicken and fries. I’m not the only one gorging myself in the name of gluttony—an African American customer parked a couple stalls down tears open his salad and takes a few hefty bites before starting the engine and heading off. As does the couple that park there soon after. And the family after that. I realize that my weight may soon bear the marks of my sin, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the moment.
As John T. Edge writes in the introduction of this book, “If fried chicken is American, then it denotes an American identity that accommodates cooks from a plethora of traditions.” Assimilating American traditions and preserving them—this is what the Chinese proprietors at Donahoo’s does best, and the ample-assed, big-bellied clientele—the several car loads of Mexicans, Blacks—tell the story.
Donahoo’s Golden Fried Chicken, 1074 N. Garey Ave., Pomona, (909) 622-3213, (locations also in Riverside and Ontario). Lunch for two, less than $15.
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