Cowboy Chicken Gives the Bird in a Good Way, But You Better Bring Earplugs

Cowboy Chicken Gives the Bird in a Good Way, But You Better Bring Earplugs

Cowboy Chicken
multiple locations

Dude Factor: 7, or Ed Furillo, on a scale of 1 (Ira and Barry Shalowitz) to 10 (Curly Washburn)

The first thing you notice walking into Cowboy Chicken is that the whole wood-fired rotisserie thing is no bullshit. It's hard not to sit hypnotized by the two giant rotisseries twirling behind the counter, the skin on a couple dozen birds sizzling as the fire behind them cracks and pops. On our last visit we had to admire the spectacle from a distance because of the heat, but don't think we haven't spent several chilly winter nights warming ourselves by rotisserie light as well.

Unfortunately, the fire is only bit of real ambiance the place has going for it, unless you count some bits of Western kitsch adorning the walls and the horrid pop country soundtrack piped in directly from the hellfires of Nash Vegas -- "Oh, it can't be that bad," you're probably thinking, but we beg to differ. And if you hit right after the lunch rush, you're often treated to the sight of tables piled high with chicken bones and greasy napkins, which is understandable but not altogether appetizing.

Luckily, the chicken here almost makes up for the slow bussing, whether you get a roasted half bird or the other delectable specialty on the menu, Cowboy Chicken's badass chicken enchiladas, consisting of pulled roasted chicken rolled into tortillas (this element could definitely be improved) and drowned in a tangy tomatillo-sour cream sauce. The sides aren't too shabby, either -- from the "Famous Twice Baked Potaters" to the "Zippy Black Eyed Peas" and mac and cheese. They're all pretty good. In fact, we've seen more than a few people order a veggie plate here (not us, don't worry), which is not something you see too often in other chicken joints around town.

Bonus points for the giant, blown-up copy of our own Cheap Bastard's 2007 review in the men's room, though the rush of Observer pride still can't make up for the fact that it always smells like the grease trap up in there. But no worries, bros -- the Borders bathroom across the street will work in a post chicken-pinch if your nose can't handle it. And they've got plenty to read, too.


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