Where’s the fried chicken?” one of the portly, southern-fried-food freaks at my table asked as we squinted at the menu of the amiable Chelsea restaurant, Tipsy Parson, which has been open for a couple of months now, among the jumble of storefronts on Ninth Avenue. There were no crispy fried pig tails on the menu either (although for a time the kitchen did serve fried turkey tails), and unlike other southern-themed establishments that have sprouted up in the midst of the city’s well-publicized fried-chicken boom (Brooklyn Star, the Redhead), there was a curious lightness to the décor. Silk tassels hung from the ceiling fans, and the windows were adorned with cushioned seats and carefully sewn striped pillows. Elegant, antebellum bric-a-brac was scattered here and there (julep cups, tiny porcelain dogs, a riding helmet), and as another of my portly friends discovered to his horror, the tidy unisex bathroom was heavily perfumed and decorated with painted white peonies.
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