Out to Lunch

Chicken champ Frank Perdue talks turkey with JOHN HEILPERN

Frank Perdue, described to me as the Johnny Carson of the chicken world, arrived for lunch in his silver Mercedes, which bears a sticker that reads, I’M A PRIME PART OF PERDUE. We were on Main Street in Salisbury, Maryland, near the Perdue chicken headquarters, and on Main Street, it so happened, a pork festival was going on.

“Love your chickens, Frank!” people called out as we strolled through the pork festival, and the tough man who makes a tender chicken looked pleased, and murmured, “Well, thank you!”

Then we went for lunch at Benson’s, which is quite chic and very pink, and he ordered a glass of sherry and flirted amiably with the waitress. The man who has made himself— and his chickens—famous is, at sixty-four, a dapper devil with a gold Perdue-chicken service pin in his lapel. “Melinda,” he said to the waitress, “I think I’ll have a breast of chicken.”

But there had been a mistake. We had been given the dinner menu. “No problem, Melinda,” he said after little more than a glance at the lunch menu. “I’ll have the chicken salad instead. You might add a tomato.”

“Forgive me,” I said, “but you could be about to eat one of your own.”

“I should hope so!” said Frank.

“But how can you do it, living with chickens all day long as you do?”

“I don’t eat chicken because of my loyalty to the chicken business, particularly,” he replied, and then looked cheerful. “I happen to like chicken. My father, for instance, began our business, but he didn’t like chicken at all. He wouldn’t go near it. I eat chicken most days, though.”

“When did you first realize chickens were for you?”

“Not at first. As a child I used to pack eggs on the farm. Breakfast eggs. But then, when I was twelve or so, I told my dad, ‘Dad, I can’t wait to be old enough to get off this chicken farm.’”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. My father was a very wise man. He wrote a book when he was ninety, you know. It’s called A Solid Foundation. I also had the stubborn streak of Henri Perdeux, who rebelled against the King of France.”

“Yes?”

“The Perdues come from French Huguenot stock. Henri Perdeux was a relative of mine who when told by the King of France that he had to become a Catholic or leave town replied, ‘King, I’ll leave.’”

“Really?”

“Yes. He went to England, sailed to Martinique and then to Ocean City, Maryland. And we’re still here.”

“So when did you go back to the chicken farm?”

“When I went to college and got wise,” said Frank, laughing.

“How many chickens do you produce, by the way?”

“About six and a half million a week.”

“My goodness! That seems a lot. Are you into turkeys?”

“Yes! We just got a new turkey plant. But it’s too soon to tell about turkeys. We’ve had the fresh Cornish hen for several years, of course. And there’s the Oven Stuffer Roaster, with the popup timer. We’re going to be getting into more chicken products, the first of which is the chicken hot dog.”

“Chicken hot dogs don’t seem right to me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, does one go to the ball game to eat chicken hot dogs?”

“Well, they’ve got chicken hot dogs for all the Phillies baseball games,” he answered. “And sales are up 20 percent on last year!”

“I stand corrected. Would you say you are a shrewd businessman?”

“Some may say that. I’d say I’m a product of all my mistakes. And I work very hard. Whatever it takes. I always have.”

“Has it been worth it?”

“I think so. I enjoy the business of business. It’s not a tremendous desire to make money. I’m trying to produce the bestquality chickens. Michelangelo didn’t paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for money. He did it for the challenge.”

“True. But if I may say so, what about the chickens? They don’t have much of a life, do ney?”

“But they don’t know that,” he answered, looking genuinely concerned. “And they are beautifully fed. We have excellent nutritionists. Our chickens are fed better than humans, because humans eat too much fat and chocolate and drink beer.”

“And chickens don’t do that as a general rule.”

“Exactly. They don’t have that opportunity. So at least they’re well fed. And remember, chickens are cheap, so there has always been a natural proclivity on the part of the human masses to eat chicken. You can’t forget that.”

“Well, I don’t think I should preach to you about cruelty to chickens.”

“Not when I’m in the business!”

“So tell me this. Have you a New Year’s message for all our readers?”

“The number-one thing in this life is to work at what you really enjoy.”

“Merry Christmas, Frank.”

“And a Merry Christmas to you!” said Frank Perdue.