Deep-Fried Chicken Shit by Morrigan Byalin

Upon shuttering Dinner With Friends—a tediously upscale French bistro in Midtown Manhattan that was decidedly unfriendlydespite the bold declaration scrawled across the fussy red marquee—it seemed Leroy Belk was ready to retire, and, really, who could blame him? Thirty years in the hospitality industry is nothing to scoff at, and, while his attempt at success in the oft-fraught role of Chef-Owner may not have paid off, he still had that Michelin star from his time at Les Créations de Aimard with the acclaimed Monique Aimard, as well as a profitable line of ready-to-bake tartlets—available in Mushroom-Camembert, Spiced Jambon, and Orange-Basil Marmalade at Whole Foods. So, in truth, Belk had nothing left to prove, and, with enough money to comfortably last him the rest of his life, no need to risk further ridicule by putting himself out there once again.

And yet, that is just what he did, with roaring success.

Never one for modesty, Belk’s new restaurant is named Leroy’s and has abandoned the put-on French aesthetics everyone aspires to after graduating from culinary school. Back to his Georgian roots, Belk puts a posh spin on Southern Comfort, with Ibérico Jowl Collard Greens, grass-finished Beef-Back Ribs with a fig jam-bourbon glaze, and Seven-Cheese Macaroni (Gruyère, Manchego, Brie de Meaux, Comte, Taleggio, Livarot, and Pecorino Romano, if you’re curious) with an extra-crispy einkorn breadcrumb crust.

The drinks are mixed strong, making the warm, bubbling haze of the half-basement Park Slope venue all the more dreamy and effervescent, like a discotheque in a bomb shelter. The Florida-Georgia Gin Fizz is frothy with egg whites and fresh-squeezed tangerine juice, and the Blue Mountain Negroni is extra rich with imported Jamaican coffee beans, but the real standout is the Backyard Mint Julep, with slushy frozen watermelon juice instead of crushed ice, a splash of key lime, and two and a half ounces of single-barrel bourbon, aged 10 years.

Don’t expect to make it out of Leroy’s without spending at least $150 per person, but locally foraged morel mushrooms and Alaskan King Crabs don’t come cheap.

For dessert, the Georgia-born chef couldn’t resist including a Saturn Peach Cobbler, complete with a shortbread crust, burnt-butter drizzle, and fresh cream. Ma’s Chocolate Pecan Pie is a crowd-favorite, with single-origin chocolate chunks (sourced from Costa Esmeraldas, Ecuador) and pecans from a family-owned Georgian farm. There is also Raw Milk ice cream (which isn’t really raw, sorry to any RFK acolytes), but instead refers to the simple, unsweetened flavor with milk straight from Amish-owned Pennsylvania Jersey cows, as well as a Sweet Tea Sorbet.

However, I am unable to offer an opinion on any of Leroy’s signature desserts, as I was given a rather unusual postprandial treat.

Now, I want to say first and foremost that I generally despise it when chefs go out of their way to cater to me, and, as I am—and I say this with as much humility as I can muster—one of the most prominent and recognizable food critics in the world, the smarmy brownnosing is inevitable. But Belk, to his credit, brownnoses in a league of his own. I was awaiting the slim, single-paged dessert menu when my waitress—dressed charmingly in chestnut brown as the waitstaff here eschew the traditional black unform—arrived with an herbal liqueur with notes of eucalyptus and honey, and a platter of something steaming and pungent, a shade or two darker than the brown of her coquettish little outfit, and you’d forgive me for thinking it to be a flourless chocolate cake.

“Courtesy of Chef Leroy, for his best critic.”

An interesting turn of phrase. I’ve certainly not been kind to Belk in the past, so some might say I’ve critiqued him better than anyone else. And, looking around Leroy’s, who could say he hasn’t improved thanks to my criticism?

She set the plate and digestif in front of me, smiling with all the Southern hospitality a Gen Z Brooklynite could muster. “Enjoy his new specialty dish: Deep-Fried Chicken Shit.”

That left me in a bit of a stupor, I must confess. And, like a remedial English major, I struggled to parse through the metaphor and symbolism of this bizarre offering.

At first blush, it seemed as though Belk was telling me to “eat shit,” which felt a little brusquely middle-class for his decidedly bourgeois temperament. Though what is Leroy’s if not an attempt to reclaim the working-class, Georgian upbringing he abandoned in favor of Paris and then Brussels and then Paris again and now New York—retreating to Brooklyn when Manhattan failed him? The deep-fried preparation of the fecal matter adds to this notion. And it is not fried in tallow or lard or shmaltz, but rancid canola oil or perhaps soybean oil, or one of those other cheap seed oils people are chronically fretting about nowadays. It is an homage to fast food, gas station cuisine.

But then, why Chicken Shit? Why not simply Deep-Fried Shit? Chicken shit, as any native English speaker would know, is euphemistic for cowardice. But who is cowardly? Certainly not me. I have received death threats from restaurateurs enraged at the brutal honesty of my reviews. I write fearlessly and without mercy. Perhaps this dish is self-deprecating, an admission that Dinner With Friends was an attempt to hide from his roots, to mimic the culinary style of his heroes and mentors without taking any risks?

Deep-Fried Chicken Shit is harder to decipher than Finnegan’s Wake.

Regardless, I must admit, the shit was fantastic, perfectly crispy on the outside, but still gooey and soft inside. Not too heavy, like horse shit might have been. An ideal conclusion to a wonderful meal. Welcome back, Leroy Belk!