Where to find the best Korean fried chicken on Long Island

The first time I tried Korean fried chicken — often affectionately called the other KFC — it was in a Korean pub north of Oakland, California, where I lived during my raucous, perpetually broke 20s. One night I stumbled into this hideaway, a dimly lit windowless outpost of Dan Sung Sa, a Koreatown cult favorite in L.A.

About a third of the way through a hulking two-liter bottle of Hite Korean beer, my spicy chicken wings arrived, piled high on a white plate and scattered with sesame seeds. I picked one up, the sticky glaze getting all over my fingers. The batter crackled under my teeth like that of the (original) KFC — coincidentally, there was a branch right across the street — and the flavor was nothing short of incredible. It was funky and fermented, with a deep undercurrent of soy and gochujang, a Korean red-pepper paste that possesses a mellow wallop. From that moment on, I was utterly enamored with this dish. For me, its magical heights were inextricably linked to a moody, dark tavern vibe.

That’s why I’ve been so perplexed by this current boom in brightly lit Korean fried chicken joints. Over the past couple years, several chains have descended upon Long Island and the greater tristate Area. Now everyone and their sister-in-law from Patchogue is talking about which one is the best.

Is it Pelicana, the "king of chicken?" Or Bonchon, which touts that Anthony Bourdain once gave it his stamp of approval? (Bonchon’s first Long Island location just opened in Centereach. My initial impression: The joy of this chicken lies almost entirely in the crunch.) Or maybe it’s a local minichain like Mad for Chicken, which replaces Korean beers with American IPAs and skips the K-pop for ’90s R&B. These days, you’re just as likely to find Korean fried chicken listed alongside the Buffalo wings at a sports bar. Or even at Wingstop.

A Facebook post I made to the tristate Restaurant Club elicited a flurry of opinions. Coram resident Semi Wang, 31, said over the phone that, as a Korean American, she grew up eating at all the Korean fried chicken spots in Queens and even worked at Kyochon for a spell. But her preferred spot is Cheo Ga Jip in Flushing, where she orders a combo plate of chicken and her favorite Korean sweet potato pizza. Wang’s go-to on Long Island is Pelicana, which she says has a "cleaner taste, and a traditional Korean crisp to it."

"I feel like with American franchises, [the chicken] is either crispy or flavored. You won’t be able to get both," she said. But with Korean chicken, "You have the crisp but also the sauce."

So what’s behind this phenomenon? I put the question to Brian Kim, the franchise owner of Pelicana Chicken in Plainview. The Syosset native worked as a district manager who helped open Pelicana stores for seven years before he decided to branch out with his own in 2023, before the other Korean fried chicken chains arrived on Long Island.

"There’s way too much fried chicken in Korea," he exclaimed during a recent lunch at his bright, chipper restaurant on Woodbury Road. There, he said, you can get fried chicken anywhere: on the street, at a bar, at a fast-food joint. The market is overcrowded, and companies are looking to the United States for new business opportunities.

The Netflix food show "Korean Fried Chicken Rhapsody," one of the many K-culture offerings on the streaming network, states that there were 683 different fried chicken brands in South Korea in 2022, with more than 40,000 individual storefronts. The show posits that the first franchise, Lim’s, opened in 1977 after founder Yu Seok-ho discovered fried chicken in New York while he was studying fashion design. Brands such as Pelicana and Mexican Chicken appeared in the ‘80s, around the time Kentucky Fried Chicken reached South Korea and set the market ablaze. (Another widespread origin story attributes the dish to African American soldiers during the Korean War.)

Unlike many competitors, Kim said his kitchen does not double-fry to attain the super-crackly shell that is one hallmark of Korean fried chicken. "We fry chicken at 350 degrees for 12 minutes. That’s the most perfect timing for juiciness of the chicken," he said later over the phone. "You put chicken in batter, mix it up, put it into the oil ... It’s gonna get dry, the more you fry."

Pelicana also claims to have invented the glorious yangnyeom sauce that is another signifier of Korean fried chicken. Glossy and spicy-sweet, yangnyeom (pronounced "yang-nyum," it means "seasoned" in Korean) is typically prepared by boiling red pepper powder and gochujang with soy sauce, brown sugar and thickeners such as rice syrup, although the exact recipes tend to be proprietary. This is just opinion here, but fried chicken with yangnyeom is the ultimate, most accessible expression of the Korean flavor palette.

This was my first visit to a Pelicana, and the surprisingly large menu included fried cheese balls, fried squid jerky, french fries in Camembert cheese powder and specials such as spicy budae jjigae stew and conch sea snails with cold noodles. There was a whole page titled "Whatever Combo," and another section of "Ugly Fried Chicken Sandwiches." The fried chicken options alone were dizzying, especially when you factored in the various batters (original, original spicy, crispy, crispy spicy), sauces and seasonings. There was even a special category of dipping sauces.

This, however, did not stop me from fixating on the Original Garlic Scallion chicken ($22 for a half order). Kim cautioned against it, saying it was a "strong flavor," but that only egged me on. About 10 minutes later, a tray of crispy chicken pieces arrived topped with a grassy mound of scallion slivers and julienned raw garlic. Along with the typical side dish of pickled white radishes, there was also a bowl of coleslaw and a corn salad made creamy with mayonnaise.

I attempted to eat most of the vegetation by scattering the strands onto each piece of crispy chicken as I took a bite, and the pungent flavor knocked my socks off. (Fortunately for my officemates, there was complimentary mouthwash in the bathroom.) I honestly preferred it to Pelicana’s yangnyeom chicken, which wasn’t quite as seductive as that at my beloved Oakland dive bar.

Taste memories, after all, are powerful ones. The chicken that felt so right when devoured in a dim, smoky Korean pub lacked the same allure in the well-illuminated chain restaurant. But maybe I need to get over it, as the chain restaurants are introducing this art form to the masses.

Despite their face-punching chicken, these larger chains tend to have dining rooms that are (how to put this) family-friendly. A more recent addition, bb.q Chicken opened late last year in a Levittown shopping center alongside a Kohl’s and PetSmart. The fast-casual space is decorated with white subway tiles and a shiny concrete floor. Unlike some other bb.q Chicken locations, there is no beer or soju (a typically rice-based clear spirit similar to vodka) on the menu. It’s tailor-made for the takeout customer.

"I feel like [KFC] is one of the most popular menu items that people get delivered for a late-night snack," says Yeeun Park, a store marketing coordinator at bb.q. Chicken headquarters in Los Angeles. "Especially if there are games going on, like the Olympics or the World Cup. The most food that we order is Korean fried chicken."

According to Park, bb.q. Chicken is the largest of the Korean fried chicken chains, with more than 200 locations across the United States and 3,500 stores worldwide. Company execs were encouraged by the rise of Korean pop culture, she said. But that doesn’t explain the startling statistic listed on their takeout boxes. In 1995 bb.q Chicken opened its first store, it reads, and by 1996 there were already 200 locations.

A friendly employee steered me through the flavor combinations, which were more streamlined compared to Pelicana. Admitting she didn’t like spicy food, she said her favorites were the honey garlic and the darker, soy-based Gangnam style, named after the 2012 viral song by South Korean rapper PSY. ("Eh, sexy lady / Op, op, op, op / Oppan Gangnam style.")

My wings, which took 10 to 15 minutes to come out on their red tray, had been made to order, fried at a low temperature in olive oil. Dare I say it, this chicken was better than the dive bar, better than any I’d ever had. The wings were coated in a bubbly, crackly shell, so hot it seared my fingertips. The meat was still beautifully tender. And the sauces were intensely good: sticky sweet with honey, robust with salty soy. And guess what, they were delicious an hour later when I took a few home to my boyfriend. There were no sports games playing on TV, but I managed to fit in an episode of "Severance" for dessert.

I didn’t think I could top those wings, but I still wanted to find a Korean fried chicken experience that would take me back to the good old days. I ate around some more. Spoonsticks in Massapequa has great wings but is more of a proper restaurant. The closest Korean old-school tavern I found is on Northern Boulevard in Murray Hill, Queens, but I needed to stick to Nassau or Suffolk. So, I scoured the internet and found a newly opened spot just a few towns over in Port Washington. Fly Chick to the Moon is owned by a local couple, Julia and Mason Kim, who are originally from Jeju Island, the beachy paradise that’s often referred to as the Hawaii of South Korea. The two met in Queens and run a pair of Port Washington bagel shops, Shore Bagel and Bagel Time.

Mason wanted to expand their business with something new. Inspired by the popularity of K-culture, the two decided to do chicken, visited Pelicana and some other shops and eventually developed their own recipe. The owner of the space next-door to Bagel Time was ready to sell, and they made a deal before he put it on the market. Julia painted the walls black with a large mural of a full moon, which symbolizes Mason achieving his dream of opening the restaurant, "like a little chick flying to the moon," she said.

The airy, neatly decorated space wasn’t exactly a hideaway, but the dark walls and wood paneling did add a bit of a nighttime feel. Overhead, a TV flashed a message, "Do you know chimaek??" with an image of a cartoon chicken and a mug of beer. And there you have it: Chimaek is the Korean term for eating chicken and drinking beer. "That’s our Korean vibe," said Julia. "Most of the weekends, starting Friday night, people gather together to do chimaek." She added, " ‘Chi’ means ‘chicken,’ and ‘maek,’ from ‘maekju’ means ‘beer’ in Korean. Beer and chicken, friends and families." I felt the knot of tension I’d been carrying around begin to ease.

As of this writing, Fly Chick to the Moon hasn’t obtained its liquor license yet, so for now, it’s BYOB with no corkage fee. But to my surprise, the 30-something in me, who had just driven 45 minutes to get there on a weeknight, felt relieved. I asked for a Diet Coke and an 8-piece order of "glazed hot" wings, along with some cheese-powdered fries and tteokbokki (rice cakes) in spicy pepper sauce.

A few minutes later the chicken pieces came out on a long plate, complete with a fancy little garnish of whisper-thin radishes. I grabbed a bulbous, crackly wing and dug my teeth into the batter. It was just as I’d remembered. There was sticky hot glaze all over my hands, and I struggled to make conversation with my dining companion because I was distracted by this messy, magnificent chicken.

"So, what projects did you work on this week?" I asked, attempting an adult conversation. I don’t remember her answer.

By Andi Berlin

andi.berlin@newsday.com

Andi Berlin is from Arizona and does not know where she is going. But when she gets there, she’ll find something beautiful and delicious that the world needs to taste.