American street food keeps getting re-invented: oysters, tripe soup, and chicken gizzards get replaced by hot dogs and pretzels. Barbecue becomes “whole hog” and tacos – once distinctly regional – become national. When things change this fast, something; or somebody has to get left in the dust.
Had fried chicken stands that sold livers and gizzards been totally replaced by whole birds from spinning rotisseries? I had to find out. That’s what brought me to the New Eastern Market in York, Pennsylvania. I was sure it had a stall with deep fried chicken livers and maybe gizzards too. And then when I got there, the spot I remembered was empty. Closed and without a hint of active business – the fryers covered with old bed sheets.
Wandering the aisles in a funk, I finally stumbled upon a barbecue and fried chicken stand on the other side of the building. In the back of the display cabinet, behind the legs, thighs, and breasts, were a small mound of deep-fried, whole chicken livers. Black with blood and minerals, and covered with a crisp, golden crust.
I watched as the girl behind the counter packed them up. First in a cardboard tray, then wrapped in foil, and finally, in a plastic shopping bag. The market house was filled with the sort of amazing food artisanship that you might have taken for granted a half-century ago. Local cured meats, fresh produce, and baked goods from the days when Pennsylvania Dutch was a cuisine and not a tourist trap. What it lacked was a table and chairs. Had they been there, I’d have eaten at two or three other vendors too.
Once again, and not for the first or last time, my car became my dining room.
Wedged between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, the scents of deep-frying and heavy seasoning quickly took over. On my lap, the filled takeout tray commandeered the space. These were whole chicken livers – as crunchy as popcorn and without a speck of grease. It was time to eat.
Biting in, crisp was there along with salt and chili heat. Yes, there was the iron tang of liver, but it was in the background. A faint whisper of depth I wasn’t used to. The first four or five were as sublime an eating experience as a person could have in a rural American parking lot. The salt was getting to me though, I re-wrapped the livers and headed back into the market for a drink.
The New Eastern Market wasn’t the sort of place you hopped into for a quick purchase and I didn’t return to my car/dining hall for more than 25 minutes. Biting into liver number six, I almost wretched: deep-fried chicken livers waited for no one. Now almost chilled in the late October air, they were strangely chewy, and dare I say it … inedibly liver-y.
They were punishing me for leaving them alone. The livers and I had made friends, and then, when I turned my back on them, they turned on me. Love to hate in no time at all.
I suddenly understood why so many people dreaded the thought of them. Available only at backwater takeout counters and rarely fried or seasoned with the sort of care bestowed here, a person’s chances of getting something delicious were slim at best.
A fried chicken leg or breast could survive anything. Hot, cold, tepid – they were the food friends that always offered comfort. Not the livers though, they demanded your full attention and even then, could wind up offering nothing in return.
