Nashville poultry

I try hard not to judge anyone's lifestyle, but seriously, vegetarians, you are wasting your lives. Two sublime examples from one day in Nashville make it pretty hard to accept the argument that you're living just as well as the rest of us.

ITEM: Hog Heaven Alex Pappademas tipped me to this fine establishment on the edge of Centennial Park near Vanderbilt, and since I've all but abandoned hope of getting a story out of GMA week, I spent the morning typing up notes from the days before and then headed over to try some Tennessean barbecue. I tried the pulled chicken, which is served on what's called cornbread in these parts—silver dollar-size corn pancakes. The sauce is white, more tangy than spicy. I chose greens with vinegar and cole slaw as sides and was very happy. I kept glancing from the screened-in dining area and thinking I should go check out the park on such a beautiful day but decided to just keep eating instead.

ITEM: Prince's Chicken Shack Trying to find Hog Heaven's address led me to some forums on Nashville food, which led me to this recent article on hot chicken, a local specialty. So before heading out to a night of top-flight Christian entertainment, I made my way to the north side of town and this shack, which would properly be known as "Prince's Strip-Mall Tenant" but who's keeping score? The decor is an unusual combination of country kitsch (folk art chicken paintings, pew-styled booths) and Southern gangsta (posters for artists such as Pistol, who I assume sells hundreds of thousands of records but have never heard of). I got the medium-hot breast quarter, which indeed comes on bread. I was on my own and couldn't figure out how to eat a bone-in sandwich so I opted to just eat it as if it were fried chicken. Which it was, just so spicy that it burned away the outer layer of my frontal lobe and momentarily freed my frozen sense of smell. It was terrific. I had to ration out my lemonade and cole slaw to keep my mouth somewhat cool but never at any point did the spices' heat overwhelm the fine flavor of everything on my plate.

Both of these meals broke the strict budget rules I've set for these trips, and my bloodstream is now probably 30 percent schmaltz, and I'll probably have a heart attack at the Dove Awards tomorrow night and go out in a way no one should. It will have been worth it.