Raising Cane's
Don't Even Ask About The Dog
I've driven past the new Raising Cane's on Westheimer between Kirkwood and Dairy Ashford several times since it opened, and finally decided to go try it out.
They serve chicken fingers, and that's about it. You can get 'em on a bun, you can get 'em on the run. You can try 'em in a box, you can stuff 'em in your socks. That last suggestion might even be preferable to eating them.
As chicken fingers go, they're passable, until you look beyond just the actual chunk of hen meat. There's no marinating of the meat, nor spicing of the breading that I can tell. Ditto for the fries, the Texas toast (topped with sesame seeds... the horror! the horror!) and the cole slaw. Everything has the same bland taste. This place screams for a shaker full of Tony Chachere's Creole seasoning.
See, at Raising Cane's, it's all about the sauce. They revel in their dipping sauce. They sell it by the pint. From reading their promotional literature, you'd think this sauce, properly applied, would bring Peter Jennings back from the grave to dance the watusi on Arafat's grave.
As it happens, the sauce ain't all that. I saved one of the mini-tubs they gave me, and took it home to share out and have a 2nd and 3rd opinion of what it's made of. If I had to guess, I'd say it was a mix of creamy Italian salad dressing, 1000 Island dressing minus the pickle bits, and a wee dram of BBQ sauce and tomato paste. Maybe just a smidgen of mayo for body.
The chicken fingers, hot from the pressure fryer, clash most horribly with the ice cold dipping sauce. By the time the poultry digits have cooled, though, their blandness really start to show. When they were piping hot, at least you had jets of boiling fat squirting on your tongue for taste.
I tried their "world class" lemonade. Feh. Chik-Fil-A's is better.
Leaving the restaurant after the meal, I was treated to a parting gift, the hot breeze blowing off their Fry-O-Later vent. Nothing like the aroma of overheated fowl to really send you off with a grin.
I'd eat there again, but only if the other available options were eating at Hartz Chicken or peeling a dead grackle off the asphalt. Your mileage may vary.
I've driven past the new Raising Cane's on Westheimer between Kirkwood and Dairy Ashford several times since it opened, and finally decided to go try it out.
They serve chicken fingers, and that's about it. You can get 'em on a bun, you can get 'em on the run. You can try 'em in a box, you can stuff 'em in your socks. That last suggestion might even be preferable to eating them.
As chicken fingers go, they're passable, until you look beyond just the actual chunk of hen meat. There's no marinating of the meat, nor spicing of the breading that I can tell. Ditto for the fries, the Texas toast (topped with sesame seeds... the horror! the horror!) and the cole slaw. Everything has the same bland taste. This place screams for a shaker full of Tony Chachere's Creole seasoning.
See, at Raising Cane's, it's all about the sauce. They revel in their dipping sauce. They sell it by the pint. From reading their promotional literature, you'd think this sauce, properly applied, would bring Peter Jennings back from the grave to dance the watusi on Arafat's grave.
As it happens, the sauce ain't all that. I saved one of the mini-tubs they gave me, and took it home to share out and have a 2nd and 3rd opinion of what it's made of. If I had to guess, I'd say it was a mix of creamy Italian salad dressing, 1000 Island dressing minus the pickle bits, and a wee dram of BBQ sauce and tomato paste. Maybe just a smidgen of mayo for body.
The chicken fingers, hot from the pressure fryer, clash most horribly with the ice cold dipping sauce. By the time the poultry digits have cooled, though, their blandness really start to show. When they were piping hot, at least you had jets of boiling fat squirting on your tongue for taste.
I tried their "world class" lemonade. Feh. Chik-Fil-A's is better.
Leaving the restaurant after the meal, I was treated to a parting gift, the hot breeze blowing off their Fry-O-Later vent. Nothing like the aroma of overheated fowl to really send you off with a grin.
I'd eat there again, but only if the other available options were eating at Hartz Chicken or peeling a dead grackle off the asphalt. Your mileage may vary.
posted by El Capitan | 8:38 PM
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