There comes a time when a man must stand up for what he believes and ask for extra gravy on his chicken fried steak. Which is exactly what I am doing.
I am asking my wife to cover my plate in white pepper gravy.
I have a long history with chicken fried steak. It goes back to when I was a child.
Chicken fried steak was a real treat in our household. We rarely ate it at home. And we hardly ever went out to eat, either. Eating out was too expensive, and my father was so cheap that he wouldn’t have given a nickel to see Jesus ride a bike.
If we ever did go out, I was only allowed to order ice water. No ice.
Until one fateful Saturday morning, for an unknown reason, my father decided to take our family to a breakfast restaurant.
I can still remember it. The place was a dive. Vinyl seat cushions. Napkin dispensers. George Jones was singing
My father told me I could have anything I wanted on the menu. So I ordered chicken fried steak and asked the waitress for extra white gravy.
My father said, “You’ll never finish all that.”
I laughed at my critics.
The waitress brought me a steak that was about the size of Venezuela. I ate three bites and had to be carried out of the restaurant on a stretcher.
When I got older, I visited a themed restaurant outside Little Rock that claimed to have the world’s biggest chicken fried steak.
When I ordered, the perky waitress said, “You sure you wanna order that? You look kinda puny, kid.”
My steak arrived on a platter with a Bowie knife sticking from the top. And I could swear I heard George Jones singing overhead.
“Stand back,” I said. “This could get…