Cuisine Scene: Channel [V]'s Billy Russell on fried chicken

The Thunderbird at Mary’s in Newtown, Sydney is my Everest. Three whole chickens, stuffed with cheeseburgers, deep fried to perfection. Where many have died before me trying (probably), I will succeed as I climb it, devour it, shove my – err – flagpole in it. I will one day be the Sir Edmund Hillary of obesity! Unfortunately, the staff at the recently-opened bar advise me that their heart-attack-inducing creation is still only at the prototype stage, which means that this self-described “fried chicken connoisseur” (“fat c**t” to everyone else) has to get his poultry kicks elsewhere. Which is totally fine, because Sydney is practically a smorgasbord of little, helpless chickens that have spent the perfect amount of time in a basket of oil.

Firstly, there’s Victoria Yeeros in Marrickville, the proprietors of which have been privileged enough to have me stumble in at all hours of the morning and selflessly offer to take all the leftover devil wing-dings off their hands to save them a trip to the bin (you’re welcome, team!). A nighttime dance with the devil (wings) is then usually followed up with a seedy Sunday session of yum cha at the neighbouring Hung Cheung restaurant. Sure, your mates will insist on getting the pork buns that are way too doughy for someone who has ingested that amount of beer the night before, or they may even suggest taking that plate just to settle the debate “Is that thing alive or dead? ”But all that is needed to steer the SS Fry-Fry Chicky-Chick back on course is the following reminder: salt ‘n’ pepper chicken tastes the same in any language. And that’s delicious, friends.

Of course, my favourite fried chicken joint in Sydney would have to be Clem’s in Newtown. To borrow some expressions I’ve picked up while ogling my man-crush George Calombaris on Masterchef, their drumsticks are “well seasoned”, “unpretentious”, and “just feel like home”. Even though that part about “home” is probably just something wanky the producers make old Georgie say, it’s still totally what Clem’s is for me. I order a two-piece lunch pack (extra salt, extra gravy), hoe into it, and am instantly transformed back into the child who bought Mum KFC for lunch on Mother’s Day “because it’s what she would have wanted”. I become the child who snuck in some chicken nuggets while purporting to do the 40 Hour Famine. I’m once more the child who literally cried on Christmas Day when the takeaway stores were all closed. I eat Clem’s and I’m again that child who had no idea what greasy, Everest-sized obsession lay before him.

- Billy Russell