All Photos © Christine Elise McCarthy 2012
Roscoe’s is a Los Angeles tradition. I live near the one on Gower & am amazed to note how often there is a line to get in. All the time. Weekdays – lunch time – forget Sundays. People lose their shit for Roscoe’s. I hadn’t been since the mid eighties and, for some reason, yesterday – I got a bug up my ass to go there. This is bizarre because I don’t eat chicken & I don’t like waffles. My boyfriend eats chicken, though, and so I used that excuse to go. It was late morning, parking was easy & Roscoe’s was slow. I had forgotten how bare bones it is inside.
Shanty shack minimalism. AWFUL dance music playing.
The menu offers an incredible number of different chicken (thigh, breast, wing) combinations that you can pair up waffles or eggs or other sides. I ordered red beans, mac & cheese & green. Miles got a chicken breast & cheesy eggs.
He gave the chicken a kind review (the breast looked huge to me) but I ruined the eggs for him by pointing out that he was eating a chicken & the eggs from a chicken – & properly bummed him out. I found the greens to be bitter (which I like) but too salty. The red beans were pretty standard fare – as was the mac & cheese – but it benefited greatly from a super-soaking of Rooster (one of the great, cheap hot sauces).
Overall – it was a pretty anticlimactic meal but I am really not the audience for a chicken joynt – so I can’t hold Roscoe’s accountable for that. The meal – with one beer & a way too sweet Arnold Palmer was $30. Fair enough, I guess.
So – while I would recommend Roscoe’s to any chicken-eater that likes a heart-attack inducing meal & doesn’t need any ambiance – I can’t see myself going again – for at least another 20 years.