FROM LEFT : The Chicken Roost in downtown Providence served 2,000 dinners daily ; at its perch opposite the Providence Journal building ; the Greyhound bus station next door dropped off hungry sailors from the Newport Navy base .
doing it , a young muscular WWII vet in kitchen whites and a curly , tight black mop of hair , sporting a Niven-esque ’ stache and dark mischievous eyes .
The Chicken Roost began life in the early ’ 40s by his uncle , Al Kandarian , and was a hit . The Greyhound Bus station was next door and sailors from the Newport Navy base would flood the city looking for food and drink , the restaurant cranking out 2,000 dinners a day to feed them and Doorley ’ s Tavern , said to boast the longest bar in the state , providing liquid refreshments . Rocky Marciano , it is said , ate at The Chicken Roost when he was in town to box .
When my dad had it , I remember Danny , a bus driver and steady customer , calling me to his table one day and teaching me the joys of dipping french fries in ketchup , not dousing them in malt vinegar the way my family did . I ’ ve not doused a day since .
The city was very Italian at the time and so was Union Street . My dad ’ s close friends and fellow business owners were Paul ( Guglielmo ) the barber and Sal ( Lat-
“ To this day , chicken is one of my favorite foods , especially fried , and I can still taste the way my dad made it .”
erra ) the tailor . I got my hair cut at Paul ’ s into my twenties and also hit up Sal for occasional tailoring work . It ’ s all gone now but the memories remain , like Paul having a fake ear in a jar of formaldehyde near the mirror as a joke . At least I think it was fake .
The chicken the restaurant cranked out was succulent and tender , making it a hit for toothless minor league hockey players who got beat up pretty good over at the old Rhode Island Auditorium on North Main . “ They ’ d come in and just gum it off the bone , busted noses , stitches and all ,” my dad would marvel for years after .
Another favorite memory was the technology of the time that included this big cement-mixer-style drum in the basement . They ’ d toss potatoes in and the abrasive interior would leave them peel-free ; they were then forced into a cutting machine for uniform fry making . To prepare the chicken , they ’ d blanch the bird , let it cool , then dust it in flour and batter it , using a secret recipe that Uncle Al took to his grave .
I can still smell that chicken and practically taste it to this day , and can still see my young , fit and trim father dipping the chicken into bubbling oil and schmoozing with customers seated on red stools at the counter as he served them . He died in August 2013 , my mom following a month later . My memories of The Chicken Roost are some of the earliest I still cherish .
A couple of years ago , my lady and I were staying at the Dean Hotel on Fountain Street in Providence and were strolling toward City Hall . We walked toward a parking lot on the corner of Union Street when it hit me : This was where The Chicken Roost stood .
I leaned into the fence there now , awash in memories , visualizing that phone booth , feeling myself running up that circular staircase to hang out in my dad ’ s office , hearing the lively chatter of the restaurant , smelling that chicken and seeing my father lording over it all .
My father , for better or worse , was known for his woulda-coulda-shoulda philosophy of life . One of his biggest regrets was getting rid of the restaurant by the mid- ’ 60s , saying for the rest of his life , “ I could ’ ve been Colonel Sanders before he was ” and ruing not having more of an inheritance to leave us .
Chickens , it is famously said , always come home to roost . And thanks to you , Dad , so do the memories , and I savor every tasty one . 🆁
RHODE ISLAND MONTHLY I FEBRUARY 2025 31