French fries are about as common as American food gets. You can find them on practically every menu from coast to coast, whether the electronic one that glows above your head at Mickey D’s or the leather-bound one at your favorite steakhouse. And yet for all the opportunities to knock back a plate of fries, I think it’s fair to say the majority of them are unremarkable: limp, greasy, cold, starchy, undercooked, over-salted, the disappointments so common that our senses have basically come to expect little from the fry.
Which is why I did a double take when I tasted that first long-and-slender spud on the patio at Fryer’s. The skin-on fry was perfect in every way. It crunched on first bite, its crisp exterior giving way to a soft, almost creamy interior. The fry was warm to the touch, too, its heat acting as a kind of hand warmer in the brisk autumn air. Then there was the salt: sprinkled generously enough to mottle the fry’s golden skin and amplify the earthy flavors trapped inside. It was the kind of experience that becomes archetypal memory, one that you will summon in future conversations to explain the possibilities of the french fry.
I was never able to re-create that November moment at Fryer’s, though I came close a time or two. I think this says something about the status of french fries in American kitchens — they routinely receive the kind of can’t-be-bothered treatment afforded to such second-class side dishes — and something about Fryer’s itself. The place can be magnificent one day, maddeningly inconsistent the next.
The mood swings, perhaps, are not surprising. Fryer’s is not the latest creation from a company with years of experience operating restaurants. Nor is it a passion project from a chef who has long toiled in the service of someone else’s vision. No, Fryer’s is an idea hatched by Steve Engelhardt, a former bartender (his résumé includes stints at the District Chophouse and the Hamilton) and manager who saw the pandemic as an opportunity to go into business for himself. He had zero professional cooking experience.
Fryer’s is both personal and calculated for Engelhardt. A nighttime manager at McGinty’s Public House in 2020, he was set adrift after the Silver Spring pub shut down early in the pandemic. He took the opportunity to figure out how to open a spot dedicated to soft-serve ice cream, like the kind he used to enjoy as a boy at Dip Top in Orange, Conn. His place, in warmer months, would even serve from a walk-up window, like a boardwalk shop nestled in the D.C. suburbs.
But as a hospitality veteran, Engelhardt knew he would need to supplement the swirly confections with something that’s not so seasonal. He weighed his options: He sent résumés to Five Guys, Little Caesars and Popeyes, with the idea that, as an hourly worker in his late 50s, he would learn the particulars of one of these American staples and incorporate the dish into his business plan. Only Popeyes called him back.
For about 16 weeks in 2020, Engelhardt donned a corporate Popeyes uniform and absorbed every last detail about frying and serving chicken. He didn’t tell his boss about his agenda, at least initially, which may explain why the manager would sometimes express astonishment over his new employee’s work ethic: “I just don’t understand your exuberance for this job,” Engelhardt, now 60, remembers the boss telling him.
Fryer’s is not a carbon copy of Popeyes, of course. Engelhardt and business partner, Oscar Sanchez, another bartending refugee, worked on their chicken recipe for several weeks, trying to find one with the right color, the perfect crunch and a flavor profile all its own. Their bone-in chicken holds its own against the competition, though Engelhardt won’t spill his secrets. At least not publicly. He told me privately about one ingredient that he mixes into his dredge, the one that sets it apart from the rest. I noticed it on first bite, even though I could not, for the life of me, put my finger on it. Cardamom? Nope. Star anise? Not quite.
“I love when people come in and they go, ‘I love that you put five spice in here,’" Engelhardt tells me. “I just smile and I go, ‘That’s great.’”
Fryer’s bone-in chicken boxes (four, eight or 16-pieces) are a more dependable order than the shop’s fried chicken sandwiches. The latter rely on chicken breasts, brined in buttermilk and hot sauce, which are then fried and slipped in a toasted Woodmoor Pastry Shop bun with coleslaw, pickles and comeback sauce. The runny condiments and garnishes tend to take the edge off that fried cutlet.
I’ve grown fond of some of Fryer’s sides. Its mashed potatoes are as velvety as any I’ve had at steakhouses where you’ll pay three times the price but won’t get half the satisfaction. I’m also a sucker for Fryer’s baked beans, a side that incorporates not just mumbo sauce and Coca-Cola but also a chili powder mixture from peppers (think: Carolina Reapers, habaneros, jalapeños and more) that Engelhardt has grown and dehydrated himself. Then there are those french fries, hand-cut in house from russet potatoes. One day you’ll swear by them, the next you’ll swear at them.
Fryer’s has, as Engelhardt envisioned, many soft-serve options. You can order root beer floats (personally, I want more ice cream, less soda), turtle sundaes, shakes, and even snow-cream, the latter a combination of soft-serve vanilla, shaved ice and your choice of flavored syrup, such Tiger’s Blood, a mystery concoction that tastes like watermelon, strawberry and coconut as produced in a Cargill lab. I prefer a straight swirl of vanilla, nice and creamy, perhaps dunked in chocolate, just like Engelhardt and I had as kids.
Unfortunately, the chocolate dip is not available right now. Engelhardt, the rookie restaurateur, can’t figure out how to get his chocolate to harden. He’s working on it. “Maybe Dip Top will tell me,” Engelhardt says, with a generous laugh, “Or Dairy Queen.”
Fryer’s Roadside
Hours: noon to 9 p.m. Tuesday through Sunday.
Prices:$1.50 to $35.99 for all items on the menu.
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Review | Fryer's Roadside runs hot and cold: Tasty fried chicken and soft-serve ice cream - The Washington Post
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