I don’t know who first looked at a pickle and decided it needed breading, but I would like to thank that person.
A pickle was already doing a respectable job. Crisp. Sour. Dependable beside a sandwich. Nobody had complained that it lacked ambition.
And yet someone thought, What if I put this in hot oil?
That is the kind of curiosity we should encourage.
I went looking for a name, and found Bernell “Fatman” Austin. In 1963, he sold fried dill pickle slices at the Duchess Drive-In in Atkins, Arkansas. Fifteen pickle chips for fifteen cents. I would have bought two orders, assuming I could have scraped together thirty cents and found my way to Arkansas.
Mr. Austin, can we send you flowers? Perhaps a plaque? You took a food that had been minding its business in a jar and helped it find a second calling.
I will eat a fried pickle in either form. A spear has its merits, and I am not the sort of person who turns down a perfectly good fried pickle because of its geometry. But I prefer a chip. More edges, more crunch, and a better chance that each bite will deliver both pickle and breading in the right proportions.
Crispier is better. I feel strongly about this, though I’m prepared to settle the dispute by eating a great many samples.
And please bring me a little horseradish dipping sauce. The pickle already has a sharp opinion. The sauce should be able to keep up.
This is what makes fried pickles such a clever idea. The hot, crisp coating arrives first. Then the cool, sour pickle cuts through it. You get two textures and a small argument in every bite, and both sides win.
There are people who hear “fried pickle” and ask why anyone would do that to a pickle. I understand the question. I had a similar reaction the first time somebody suggested frying a food that was already perfectly edible. But then I tried one.
There are ideas you cannot judge from a description. “Hot breaded pickle” sounds like the result of a kitchen accident. “Another order, please” is what happens after you taste it.
I’ve learned there is a National Pickle Day in November. Fine. Pickles deserve recognition for their years of service. But I’m not convinced a regular pickle can adequately represent the fried branch of the family. I also found people celebrating a Fried Pickle Day in June, though it seems to be an informal affair.
We can do better for a pickle with a fifteen-cent origin story.
Give fried pickles their own day. Give Bernell Austin a moment of appreciation. Encourage restaurants to put their crispiest chips forward, preferably with horseradish sauce available for those of us who know where we stand.
I’m not asking for a parade.
Unless someone has already ordered the float. In that case, I would like to ride on it.
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