Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

Boy Writes Los Angeles: Roscoe’s House of Chicken & Waffles

Having just recovered from an anus-obliterating bout of crappuccino-like diarrhea, recalling my fond memories of the eclectic mix of fried chicken and waffles is disheartening since the mere thought of solid food right now is as disgusting as the rum and coke-looking feces I was wrecking my toilet with earlier.

Roscoe’s House of Chicken & Waffles is the greatest thing black people have done since setting up the economic foundation of the American South out of the kindness of their hearts. At first mention, combining the sweetness of buttermilk waffles and syrup with the salty fatfuck taste of fried chicken sounds like a worse idea than The Hangover III: We Lost Someone Else in the Building and Have An Endangered Baby Panda With Us This Time. But, out of novelty, you just have to try that shit to see what it’s all about. I was visiting my cousin in LA and he tells me, “I have to take you to eat some chicken and waffles.”

Roscoe’s House of Chicken & Waffles is the greatest thing black people have done…

His roommate comes along and the three of us are sitting at Roscoe’s. This one guy, I’ll assume he was the manager since he was wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and looked like a pastor in a Tyler Perry movie, he was walking around occasionally putting dishes on people’s tables and asking how everyone’s meal was. While doing this he would pick at his teeth with his tongue as if he’s just eaten a big-ass plate of chicken and waffles and is preemptively letting everyone know how delicious it was. There was something cool as hell about that guy, and it wasn’t just because he was old and laid back (I’m talking “I had to attend a separate high school” old), but he had this presence about him. Almost as if he were Roscoe.

We each got the typical one chicken, one waffle situation. Our waitress was cool as hell and set up the order in a way that we saved money by ordering one of the meals which included two chicken breasts and two waffles, and a separate one with one chicken and one waffle.

The fried chicken itself is awesome. It’s so good it reminds you KFC was invented by a white racist. They can serve that by itself and it’s enough reason to visit Roscoe’s. The waffle, if eaten alone, is fine. It’s nothing special, I’ve had better and personally I’m a fan of waffles which are a little crispier on the outside but it’s still acceptable. But when you put them together angels grow genitals and 69 for the first time. You take that fucking chicken, you tear it apart and shred that little bitch to edible strands you can pick with your fork, you litter the top of your buttery waffle with those chicken scraps, then you top that motherfucker off with maple syrup. The result is something bards will write songs about for generations. Obviously, by bards I mean rappers, and by songs I mean whatever shit it is they try to pass off as songs these days.

Rap? Songs? What?

Damn Lil’ Wayne, you’re right. I DO hate a shy bitch!

My cousin is a little bitch and eats the individual items separate. That’s like watching a white guy at Pollo Tropical eat his rice first, then his beans. Just mix all that shit together like the Latin patron saint of food intended.

If you’re ever in LA, you need to hit up Roscoe’s immediately.


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3 Comments to Boy Writes Los Angeles: Roscoe’s House of Chicken & Waffles

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