At family gatherings when I was growing up, my grandfather would whistle while he fried his special chicken. The chicken was superb—crisp and savory and somehow better than it had any right to be. I’m convinced the whistling wasn’t just background noise. It was part of the recipe. Maybe the most important part.
Granddaddy said he learned how to fry the chicken from the owner and chef of a tiny restaurant in southern Louisiana, a place he visited back in the early 1960s. In the dining room a small sign hung over the bar making a boast so bold it begged to be tested:
“If the Colonel had our recipe, he’d be a general.”
Apologies to Colonel Sanders and Kentucky Fried Chicken, but if you tasted the chicken, you would understand the boast wasn’t tongue-in-cheek hyperbole. It was the simple truth.
Granddaddy died in 2001. Years later, on a whim—half nostalgia, half curiosity—I typed that boastful slogan into Google and found it: Chester’s Cypress Inn in Donner, Louisiana (population 126). The restaurant, I learned, was also known for fried frog legs, onion rings, and chicken gizzards—exactly the kind of menu that suggests you’re about to eat something unapologetically unique and maybe even wonderful. I was certain this was the restaurant my grandfather visited.
I told myself someday I’d make a pilgrimage down to southern Louisiana, order the chicken and sit for a spell with the strange sweetness of tasting a precious memory in its unvarnished, original setting. But the days do what days always do: they accumulate; they crowd out “someday,” and then—without warning or asking permission—that “someday” becomes never. The restaurant closed after nearly 80 years of operation.
So now the place is boarded up— gone. The tiny banner of bravado is no longer a sign beckoning patrons in a busy dining room. It’s just a memory now—the fried chicken relegated to a story people tell.
But I still have the recipe.
And I can still whistle.
For those inquiring culinary minds, here it is—the method, the measurements, and the part that matters most.
Granddaddy’s Fried Chicken. (aka “Chester Boudreaux’s Fried Chicken”)
Take the chicken pieces**. Pat them dry and salt and pepper them well. Put 1 cup of flour and 1/2 to 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper (more or less—adjust for taste) into a paper bag. Add the chicken and shake until every piece is fully dressed for the occasion.
Fry in piping hot vegetable oil or lard. As the pieces fry, lightly season with some garlic powder.
Oh—and a few more things.
Whistle a happy tune while you fry. This is most important.
And when your seven-year-old grandson “helps” you fry that chicken, make sure he gets a secret sample before dinner. Then lean in closely and tell him to keep it quiet. Seriously, do it. It’s a tradition.
That’s all there is to it. Enjoy.
** I believe Granddaddy’s skinned chicken version was his late-in-years modification to make it “healthier.” Chester probably did not skin his chicken. Also, both of them would have strongly recommended learning how to properly cut up a whole chicken. They would have considered buying pre-cut pieces—leg quarters, breasts, wings—something akin to sacrilege.
https://www.houmatoday.com/news/20180620/chesters-cypress-inn-to-close-as-restaurant
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