Yardbird - Las Vegas

We just got married!...now what?

We cut so much drama from our lives in a single night, and we're just not exhausted enough. My family flew in from China for the wedding, and they only have a couple days in town. The one thing they want is to see Vegas in all its shining glory, and a day in a rental van with a night at the Luxor doesn't sound so bad to me...

Four hours through the dessert is unpleasant at best, all sizzling, sulking sand with the occasional stubborn shrub. But with Yardbird on the other end, it's WORTH IT.

Intro to southern cooking starts with some Shrimp n' Grits. They do well with the tender jumbo shrimp, and gravelly grits get savored-up with Virginia ham. The PBR chicken jus juts in without intrusion, a pleasurable finish that's not too memorable. I've had grits with true grit, and these are just good enough. 

My cousins live in London, and you'd think people living that close to France wouldn't want for Fries, but they do. They don't want just one order, they want two. Good call, cousins; Yardbird has a way with the taters, and the ranch dressing makes them that much better.

The fries are good, but the Coleslaw is a shame. Dry shreds of cabbage sit in an inadequate puddle with not enough sauce to go around. But the crispy chicken skin on top is even better than cracklin's. They melt with a velvet crunch.

Everything is a mere prequel compared to the main event: the Chicken n' Watermelon n' Waffles that are so much better than any chicken n' watermelon n' waffles you've ever had or will ever have. The chicken is so tender. The whitest, cleanest meat you've ever seen, and even the dark meat shimmers in a beautiful beige. The sauce is awesome, but you don't need the sauce. The batter alone will blow your mind so many times over. The waffle is a crisp cloud with a wispy sweetness and a mild twist of cheesed. And the watermelon. Oh my God, southern by the grace of God. It's cold and ripe, all sugar and water until the chile cuts through. It doesn't burn; it just dances and skims across a sugary tongue. My head is so far into the this plate, I don't even pause for pictures.

I initially scoffed at the idea of all-organic fried chicken. An oxymoron at best, otherwise a contradiction of all that soul food stands for. Except it's not. Soul food is supposed to feed the soul. It reaches a hungry depth, it scratches a deep-down itch, and nothing hits the spot so completely. Yardbird does that and more, but you have to eat it to believe it. Put your money where your mouth is, but be sure to skip straight to the chicken.