We were looking for the KFC sign. Not because that’s where we were going, but because we could use that as a landmark since it’s new rival is next door: FFC. Not Flame Fried Chicken or Flade Fried Chicken or RAV4 Fried Chicken (Dad kept getting confused about the name so he’d just make things up that sounded similar…or not), but Flav’s Fried Chicken.

When I first heard about this restaurant opening in Clinton, Iowa of all places, the first thing I did was call my sister, Carla. After much laughter about the idea of Flav having a culinary venture, we decided it was going to be on our agenda the next time she was in Iowa.

Though our father knew nothing about Flav, one look at his ridiculous clock necklace in an online photo and I think he was in, possibly only for entertainment value as I’m sure no one actually goes there because of the food. So today we set off on our adventure with Dad in tow.

I have invited my sister (from The Life and Times of a Show Pony) to help recall the trip.

It took us a good hour to get to Clinton – guided not by my trusty Tom Tom, but by Dad’s map of Iowa and his general sense of direction. Emily and I knew that it was located between a KFC and a Taco Bell, so we were pretty certain that if we just made it to Clinton, we could locate FFC with no problem whatsoever. And la-de-da, I was the first to spot the FFC sign featuring a likeness of Flav for all to see.

The place was a dressed up dump. It was a different fast food joint in a previous life, but had received a fresh coat of paint and many, many graffiti like pictures of Flav (so there was no mistaking it for the former Long John Silvers). We paused briefly to take it all in then got to the business of looking over the menu.  Turned out that we didn’t have many options on that front. In fact there were more names of his kids on the menu board than actual menu options. Choices were 2 pieces of chicken – white or dark – or ribs. Each meal also came with 1 side. I asked for mac and cheese but was told that the chick in the back was just getting the ingredients together to start making it for the day (at 12:20ish p.m.). This was the first clue that planning ahead was not a hallmark of this establishment.

Dad inquired on the whereabouts of Flav himself but was told that he had been there last week, but was now back in California. Bummer on that front, but with the wide selection of Flav photos beaming from every side, it was almost like he was there.

I asked for a Coke, but apparently the drink dispenser was out and they were “waiting for the Coke man to come and fill it up”. In the meantime, they had several 2 litre bottles in the fridge of other drinks. But still no Coke. I settled for Sprite.

The chicken had several extra “fins” of fried breading, but aside from that, was fairly tasty. The baked beans had come straight and unashamedly from a can. No doctoring involved. The rolls were bare and boring. We asked for butter and were giving a few bits off of a stick of margarine. I briefly longed for KFC’s warm biscuits drizzled with honey. Then I looked up and thought how much more entertaining are pictures of Flav and stuffed chicken souvenirs than the Colonel and whatever plastic toy comes with a kiddie meal. Flav 1, the Colonel, 0.

We decided to visit the ladies room as well, to complete our experience. The door of the restroom said “ladies” in a lovely graffiti style that was supposed to look sparkly and glowing. Too bad the bathroom didn’t live up to that hype. There was a large handicap sort of bar installed in the middle of the small restroom, which rendered it completely useless to anyone impaired, and nearly useless to us. You had to be very organized about getting yourself in and out of the room, avoiding the path of the door and squeezing between the bar, the trash can and the Koala Care changing station. No small feat. A sign behind the toilet read “Employees must wash ur hands before returning to work after ur smoke break or handling money.” No mention of using the toilet.

We bid farewell to FFC and headed back to North Liberty, camera full of photos and our bellies full of chicken. And of course, we had to make a pitstop for ice cream. We’re not Perry Miller’s daughters for nothing.