On to 400°: Now open and serving we headed back to 400°. Serving chicken not mild, medium and hot but 100° (me), 200° and 400°. Another bail bondsman façade complete with bars. I think not because the neighborhoods are particularly bad but rather to keep out poultry recipe pilferers. Spice blends, brines, sauces, etc. are highly prized and recipes closely guarded. The 400° kitchen is especially lovable. Gargantuan cast iron doors cover a brick oven that was once used for smoking meats. Now, though not in operation, they serve as a backdrop, giving the kitchen a look of an old Southern plantation kitchen. It wouldn't surprise me to see a large kettle bubbling away over a fire down below. The kitchen was small with only the Lady and another gentleman working. She was the owner and the cook, having left a business executive job three years ago to open 400°. Chicken is all she can cook she said and she had eaten at Prince's most every day for years and decided to do it herself. I like that thought. I cook first because I like to feed others but a close second is the fact that I like to eat. Finding something you like and being able to somewhat recreate it at home is exciting. Being able to recreate and sell it, even better. Again we wait. About 45 minutes this time and we get it to go. Our kids are getting restless. They just don't share their dad's vision and excitement of eating fried chicken several times over the course of the day. They are ready to go downtown, swim, something other than wait and eat. Kids today? So we head back to the hotel and to our respective rooms to consume round two. It felt kind of strange. Like eating the rare and illegal ortolan. I need a napkin to cover my face. The 400° chicken was very good. A little dry and not quite as flavorful as Bolton's but good. It was wetter thanks to a dip in a spicy sauce as soon as it was taken out of the fryer. The sides were very good but did not come close to eclipsing the Bolton's greens. All in all, 400° is worthy of a stop.

To downtown Nashville and a trip around Broadway. For childless folks who like to have an adult beverage and listen to some good music, Broadway is the place to go. Every other establishment it seems is a bar or club with live music going at 3:00 on a Saturday afternoon... and it all sounded great. Quick side trips into Ernest Tubbs record store, Tootsies, The Ryman and Gruhn Guitars were great. Enough time away from fried chicken to settle the children? Well, it started to look like rain and it was getting later now so we might head back and get in a few laps in the pool. Fool ourselves into thinking that floating around in 4 feet of water for an hour is "exercise" and we're really burning off the excesses of our day. We'd have to wait until later for Prince's. Maybe a late night jaunt to really piss the stomach off before bedtime. The storms are approaching and threatening to close the swimming window. Back to the hotel and we made it just as the rain started. The pool is closed, kids are sad. Tornado warnings, storm sirens, lightning. Finally after two hours we can swim.

Prince's: 10:30 and I have to admit I am not looking forward to more chicken right now. I think my lips are still tingling from before. There is sauce under my fingernails and it's time to hit the third place of the day. But 'tis a mission we're on and so we go. It's raining again as we head north. Expecting the restaurant to be packed on a Saturday night I was happy to see just a few people inside. Prince's is located in an old strip mall building. Larger and brighter than the others, it has seating for 40 or so and plenty of room for standing and waiting. We went to the counter and ordered. Another breast quarter, some more greens, coleslaw and a nice piece of chess pie. It'll be about 30 minutes she said so we found an open table and started discussing the day. Men at the table. We left the ladies and kids at the hotel. Seems that unlike Joe and me, our wives don't find pleasure in stuffing themselves with fried chicken and calling it a "vacation" the way we do. How they live with us I'll never know but thanks. We did bring along Joe's son Max since he is a part of our man group though his eating prowess leaves something to be desired. Girlish figure for the young ladies I suppose... though I never had that thought process myself, go figure. Something about Prince's I like that I didn't see at the others. Not that is isn't or couldn't be there just not when we were. Prince's was like we had walked in on a Prince family reunion and were to be treated to the fixins. There was a cook, apron covered in flour from a day of shaking chicken, tossing a basketball back and forth with a couple of kids on the floor. There were a few tables filled with people talking and laughing with each other. Sharing stories but not their chicken. A rather large man at the front watching a small tv. A figure on the window of a black man with a crown on and the reverse spelling of Prince's above. I was starting to get excited again. Prince's is it. Their name should not belie their place in Nashville Hot Chicken hierarchy. Prince's plays second to no one. They are considered the King, the mountain top to which hot chicken must ascend. It didn't disappoint. Hot out of the fryer like the others Prince's looked and smelled like spicy Heaven. Dark orange and dripping with sauce. The breast crust was crispy and juicy and not overly spicy. It did give you the tingle since even the mild version of hot chicken has still got a kick. The sides again very good. I made quick work of my third helping of chicken for the day and gazed lovingly on my piece of chess pie. A pie trail is what I propose next. I am a lover of the sweet. I had planned to bring some honey with me to drizzle over each breast to give it that sweet and spicy edge that I do love but thought it wrong. Best to let the chicken stand on its own before I adulterate it in my own way. Must let it speak its own mind before I give it my opinion. So the bear bottle stayed safely tucked into the cupboard 180 miles away. I like to think I make a mean chess pie. Don't remember where I got the recipe but I love it and I rarely make it since I could eat an entire pie myself at one sitting...or at least over the course of a few hours. Theirs was very good too. I was half tempted to order another but thought better of it. Finally, the day was done and we were ahead of schedule by one chicken. A few poses for pictures out front and off for a rest before another planned attack on our arteries the next morning.

Off The Trail...Slightly: The Loveless Café and Motel is an institution just outside of Nashville that you must visit. Make the trip. Trust me. You don't have to go through the torture and/or pleasure we put ourselves through, just go for breakfast and enjoy. We put our name in around 9:30 and were told it would be about a 45 minute wait. Forty-five minute wait? 9:30? On a Sunday? In the Bible belt? Before Church? This was going to be great. The place started simply enough. A couple selling fried chicken out their front doors to people passing through. They put in a few rooms to let and that is the humble beginnings. It's changed hands a few times since. The rooms are not there, converted into several shops selling art, pottery, touristy things and several country food items like homemade jam and country ham. We wait by touring the shops and deciding what we'll come back and get after breakfast. We notice a smokehouse beside the restaurant and since a future entry will for sure be on BBQ it seemed prudent to speak with the man doing the smoking. We found him wrapping pork butts in foil. Getting ready to put them back in the large smoker/oven behind him. How long you let em go I asked? Put em in at 3:00am and let em smoke until about now then I wrap em and let em go low and slow overnight. I'm ordering that. Our buzzer vibrates excitedly in my pocket and we hurry inside to get down to business. Fried chicken is on the menu for breakfast. We order like we hadn't eaten in three days. Mounds of food. One of everything on the menu it seemed and two of some things. Eggs, ham, sausage, bacon, homemade granola (me, I had to start with something healthy) biscuits, gravy, and of course fried chicken. It's five minutes before the lunch menu starts so I ask our waiter if I could possibly get just a pulled pork sandwich to go with the mountain of food being assembled for our table. Of course you can. Finally our food appears, and appears, and appears. I think a side table would have been called for in this situation but luck was not on our side. The food was great. What makes this even better was the fact that so much food consumed previously had little effect on our outlook today. Everything seemed perfectly at home in my waiting hand ready to go into a more than willing mouth. The granola was good and, like the swimming, had the effect of making it seem as though it was a payment on the culinary sins I was about to partake in. Even the fried chicken was tempting. Fried Southern style with no heat it was a welcome departure from the others and every bit as good. The biscuits are what the Loveless is known for and while they were good it seems to me that it is hard to coax any more flavor out of flour, fat and baking powder than any other good biscuit I've had. Biscuits, in my mind at least, never quite rise to the pinnacle. Biscuits are made better by what they carry. Homemade peach, blackberry and strawberry jam. Honey. Butter. Or in Joe's case, a piece of fried chicken skin, thigh meat, country ham biscwich covered in red-eye gravy. Great carriers of flavor and when made well on their own they are light, fluffy and good. No dessert. No way. Not even me. This trip is over and I would nap all the way home but I'm driving...darn it. A quick stop at the shop for a couple of souvenirs and down the highway we go. Planning the next fried chicken "vacation" begins tomorrow.