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I have 866 reward points from Popeyes.
The amount of Popeyes reward points I currently have is higher than my credit score.
Popeyes is good. Very good. Great, even. I have been bullied by so-called “friends” for what they see as a bizarre interest in substandard chicken. They argue that Popeyes’ bone-in entrees are more like congealed tissue, with an average Popeyes fry basket populated by etchings of actual chicken parts (Are you eating a leg? A thigh? A wing? Who knows!) The biscuits, too dry. The sweet tea, not sweet enough.
But like any cherished food, such as carrots dipped in applesauce or barbecue sauce with fish and chips—a delicious combo for those who have the range—Popeyes remains a first love for me. As the child of two Nigerian immigrants who did not and do not cook Southern food, I looked to Popeyes for an introduction to the cuisine.
Traditions of the South, particularly culinary traditions, were a fascinating mystery to me growing up.
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I did not grow up around many Black Americans (or Black people, for that matter) on the majority white, Northwest Side of Chicago. But the plethora of TV shows featuring Southern food—from cooking shows on PBS (a staple in my cable-less house) to the paramount Sunday dinner on “Everybody Hates Chris,” featuring fresh fried chicken and slow-cooked greens—stoked my curiosity and jealousy.
Seated on my living room couch, eating hardened, cold slabs of instant Kraft, I salivated at images of baked mac-and-cheese. The Rice Krispies Treats my parents bought in bulk from Sam’s Club did little to satiate me in the face of bubbling peach cobbler, shown in close-up as it emerged piping hot from an oven.
Don’t get me wrong, we had our own delicious food too. Stewed chicken with white rice or boiled yam with fried egg were coveted favorites, but they weren’t Southern.
The shameful fact is that Chicago is home to plenty of renowned Southern eateries, with masterful versions of all the food I was so eager to try. But almost all of them were a journey away from my home. Chicago’s notoriously segregated layout created a more than hourlong commute to any restaurant serving authentic Southern cuisine. Securing the goods, especially with parents who were not willing to drive my unlicensed self, was too challenging.
So, I attempted to DIY the Southern delicacies, overstretching our house’s grocery budget to try and replicate the dishes I’d seen.
Unfortunately, my versions always came out very, very wrong. My mac-and-cheese was bland, featuring overcooked noodles and pools of grease from too much butter. The collard greens I attempted were blasphemous, as the local Jewel Osco did not carry hambones. Or collard greens, for that matter.
My fried chicken was possibly the greatest travesty of them all. The thighs and legs that I had painstakingly marinated overnight in buttermilk, dipped and re-dipped in seasoned flour, were so incorrect, coming out of my shallow frying pan burnt, acrid, and tough.
My parents tepidly encouraged my culinary experiments but grew irritated at the ever-growing pile of wasted ingredients. Plus, besides not being edible, none of the food I made was exactly “healthy,” a growing priority in my house amid panics about the “obesity epidemic.”
Popeyes came to the rescue. The upsides for my parents were the chain’s convenient location (a five-minute drive from our bungalow), and its affordable family combos. For me, the taste was everything.
It’s easy to describe a food you hate, but it’s hard to describe a food you love. I could focus on Popeye’s moist chicken, and the crispy crunch of its skin, never subsumed by grease (like the haters say.) I could marvel over Popeye’s signature Cajun fries, the perfect amount of limp that only further accentuates its trademark seasoning. I could harp on how a Diet Coke, with its subtle sweetness and friendly carbonation, rounds out such a satisfying meal.
But for me, Popeyes is about memories. It’s the transference of communal, familial feelings, inherent to Southern Sunday dinners, to non-Southern households. It’s Popeyes on special and not-so special occasions, Popeyes at monthly prayer meetings with other African immigrants hosted by my parents. Popeyes when my parents were too tired to cook after working all day (‘It’s only bad if you eat the skin,” my mom would say after bringing it home for the second week in a row). Popeyes, Popeyes, Popeyes.
Now eating Popeyes, on average, once a month, I have embraced other types of fried chicken, exploring local spots in Chicago (shout out Harold’s) and New York that provide more home cooked flair. But Popeyes was my launchpad. Popeyes remains my favorite. Transformed from a low-stakes, quick family dinner to hot-and-ready Southern comfort for my non-Southern self.
For so many people, fast food is our link to foods not within our grasp. Food we see on television; read about in cookbooks. Food we can’t seem to cook ourselves, despite our greatest efforts.
Some argue (rightfully so) that fast food can stifle future flavor exploration. We might become too comfortable with bastardized versions of other people’s prized cuisines, boxing out any appreciation for food that does not match the factory-made version we tried first. A future of scarfing down Panda Express’s Orange Chicken but gawking at Peking Duck. Always the first one to order Chipotle tacos but shrugging off tripas.
My heart, soul, and stomach know that Popeye’s is the fried chicken floor, not the ceiling. I come back to Popeyes when needed–on bad days, good days, ‘no food in the fridge” days–and tap into different choices on the other days. My controversial favorite, my (fried chicken) president, is always waiting.
Gloria Oladipo is a journalist with the Guardian US, covering breaking news and reporting on arts and culture. Oladipo also covers culture, mental health, and more in her freelance projects. She’s based in New York, but proudly reps her hometown of Chicago. To read her work or enjoy her humor, follow her on Twitter @gaoladipo.
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