Harold's Chicken Shack
There’s Art, and Then There’s Catfish
I left my apartment hungry at around noon on a sunny, cloudless day, eager to see the newly-arrived exhibitions at the Museum of Contemporary Photography, yet already fantasizing about lunch. In The Transparent City, I saw Michael Wolf’s abstracted views of Chicago high rises, as well as his voyeuristic shots of the people who inhabit their interiors—creepy and fascinating. In Work/Place, Lars Tunbjork’s amusing photographs of quirky people in banal offices include a man falling asleep at his desk with his phone off the hook, and a woman shifting through papers while squatting underneath a boardroom table. The strangest and most entertaining by far is Ann Carlson and Mary Ellen Strom’s hilarious video, Sloss, Kerr, Rosenberg, and Moore (2007). Lawyers chant and perform an awkwardly choreographed “dance” routine.
After seeing all I could, I hurried out of the exhibit due to the fact that my stomach was eating itself and I couldn’t spend another precious minute away from the food I so desperately needed. Upon the recommendation of a friend, I made my way to 636 Wabash in search of the renowned Harold’s Chicken Shack, a fine dining facility just a stone’s throw away from the museum. I started to panic when I found the area around it under construction, fearful that this would prevent me from finding my feeding oasis. I became hopeful, however, when I noticed a student carrying a takeout box from the restaurant, and I knew I must be close.
At last, my eyes rested upon the dingy white awning bearing the restaurant’s name—right near the El tracks. As I walked through the graffiti-ed revolving doors, I stepped inside the Shack’s red and white striped interior, whose walls were adorned with cheesy “hotel art.” Almost immediately, I noticed how crowded the place was—there was hardly a seat left! As I made my way in, I felt as though everyone’s eyes had turned to me. Feeling slightly out of place, but also too hungry to care, I caught a whiff of the grease-perfumed air—I could hardly contain myself.
I hastily approached the green and orange counter, yet became completely overwhelmed by the number of options listed on the menu above. It seemed that they offered every part of a chicken in any form imaginable, from gizzards and livers to giblets. Harold’s fish selection included cod, catfish, perch, whiting, and shrimp. Then there were the sides, which ranged from onion rings and pizza puffs to okra. They even had a slushy machine churning neon blue and red concoctions. I had heard that the catfish was good, but when I asked for a recommendation from the Hispanic woman behind the counter with a white scrunchy and fake, bedazzled, American flag fingernails, she told me she didn’t know—she didn’t like catfish. Taking the task upon myself, I resolved that this delicacy would be far superior in nugget form as opposed to filet, and I ordered hot sauce, fries, and a Diet Coke as accompaniments.
I walked over to the seating area as some of the people there cast curious glances in my direction. Among the wooden tables with commingled mismatched chairs of red and beige with stuffing coming out of them, only two were available. I chose the one less crumbed-on, and sat down in a seat that happened to be closest to the humming refrigerator. A bunch of guys in sweatshirts, baggy jeans, and hats left the shack after finishing up their meal. “Gizzards!” shouted the woman behind the counter. A man in a paige boy hat walked up to retrieve his food.
I looked around me. The couple seated in front of me was sitting side by side, picking away at their fried chicken. The man was wearing an earpiece and a professional-looking long, dark coat opened to expose an all-grey oversized suit. The woman beside him was wearing a brown coat with white trim, and had placed her matching brown purse on the table beside her chicken. The man had his arm wrapped around the back of her chair, and would gaze at her as she ate her meal and, every now and again, wiped each one of her fingers with her napkin.
Next to them, by the enormous window, was a man sitting alone, quietly reading a newspaper. Across from him, on my left, was a young white couple who looked like they were eating the same meal as the couple across from me. The man she was with was wearing a green sweatshirt, and almost looked homeless because of the overabundance of scruffy facial hair he wore. They discussed topics such as Christmas presents and grocery items they needed to buy.
Across the room was an interracial couple. Although the girl was cute, the guy, a ginger, seemed like the boringly clean-cut yuppie type. A short artsy guy who looked like a Columbia College student walked in and sat down to the right of me. His overgrown hair looked like it was weakly molded into a faux hawk. He carried a sleek, briefcase-looking fabric-covered computer case with short handles that he laid on the greasy table, and he played with his fancy phone. A very tall, typical Midwestern-looking dad clad in red ski jacket and plaid walked in with his teenage daughter and twenty-something son. Although they looked out of place, it was obvious that they, unlike myself, knew exactly what they wanted from the menu. Meanwhile, numerous people filed into the place to do take-out. Even if there were temporary lulls (some of my co-eaters left me), people kept on coming in. Harold’s was where it was at.
As I waited for my food to arrive, I was nervous, excited, and nostalgic all at once. The last time I had ordered catfish, I was at college in Madison, Wisconsin, waiting in a long line after the bars for Jin’s Chicken and Fish, a truck in which you could find catfish sandwiches with secret special sauce. God, that stuff was savory and delicious. I hoped Harold’s would be at least just as good.
Oh, and it was….and possibly better. When my order for catfish nuggets was called, I picked up my tray to discover a paper basket of about fifteen amazingly oversized nuggets that rested atop a bed of French fries. The cherry on top equivalent was two slices of un-toasted Wonder Bread. I mean, this is America, so what do you expect? I started scarfing down my food as soon as I could sit down. I was surprised and delighted to see and taste how light the nuggets were despite their battered, breaded quality. The nuggets were so huge that I would tear them into two or three pieces, and pop them in my mouth. This would expose the white fish that lay underneath the excess of greasy layers, and it was reassuring to know that this was legitimate, good fish and nothing close to a shady substitute.
And, like a true American, I ate so much of this greasy basket of deliciousness, and so quickly, that I only paused between breaded bites of greasy-yet-light, heavenly delight to wipe my hands of catfish residue or my running nose that was feeling the effects of the hot sauce. I watched as my nuggets disappeared one by one, and I was surprised by the amount of food I had so hastily eaten. It came to the point that another bite would mean getting sick, and I was forced to stop. Although I had eaten about eight nuggets, there was still about as much of that left over. Full, satisfied, yet slightly nauseous, I cleared my tray, asked the “nail woman” for another stack of napkins, cleaned myself up, and stepped outside.
As I write hours later, my stomach is still full and just the tiniest bit upset. Do I regret my decision to eat at Harold’s? No. Will I eat there again? Absolutely. Can I use it as an excuse to drag all of my non-Arty friends to MoCP? Why not? There’s no harm in luring people through catfish if it helps expose them to Art.
