I went in search of Beyoncé’s ‘favorite chicken’ in Houston – but left with a feeling of regret

Like all hungry travelers, I live in terror of ruining a meal abroad. Each calorie consumed must be calculated for maximum impact, according to a mental metric that combines indulgence and authenticity. This means no eating on the plane or in the hotel. This means avoiding the busiest tourist hotspots, unless they can be warned off with a statement like, “It’s touristy, yes, but it’s still worth it.” Avoiding bad meals can be as important as making sure you have the right ones. It’s not enough to have a croissant or a pizza: you have to have the best croissant or the best pizza. It’s absurd, isn’t it?

Things came to a head late last year when I went to Houston for work. As always, I spent long hours researching the best places to eat. I asked for advice on social media. I scoured websites and the local press. (As one would hope, a Texas publication has hired a full-time barbecue correspondent, a job that must produce fantastic business cards to make up for the gout.) Unfortunately, Houston, which is as pedestrian-friendly as downtown of London is with gasoline. cars, is an unforgiving place for the epicurean walker. I looked at a map and found what I thought was a lovely local cafe, recommended in a guidebook, only to discover on closer inspection that it was eight miles away. Still, I dutifully purchased an Uber. Was the cafe charming enough to justify the trip? Absolutely not.

Undeterred, at lunchtime I hopped back in a taxi to a branch of Frenchy’s, a small local fried chicken chain. I knew for a fact that it was Beyoncé’s favorite. Half an hour later, there I was, eating fried chicken that was no more than passable, wondering what I was doing with my life. What was the point of all this? No one was giving me points for eating Beyoncé’s favorite fried chicken. As far as I know, the singer was not aware of my patronage. No higher authority had been in touch to ask if I would accept an honor for my act of service. The other diners looked at me with curious pity as I prepared my chicken platter for a photo, the same way I look at the tourists filming the squirrels in Green Park: how sad it is to be so captivated by something so banal.

I posted a photo on Instagram, hoping someone would recognize my gourmand. But nothing. By the time I got back to the hotel, bloated and sleepy, I had spent $50 on a taxi and $20 on lunch, with nothing to show for it except a vague sense of regret. It was no way to live. I could have sat by the pool, had a cold Coke and a hamburger and been twice as happy.

Still, it’s hard to shake off this stomach-centric approach to travel. Thinking about summer, I’m already wondering what remote and unpromising places I’ll take my unappreciative family to. Deep down, I still believe that researching restaurants, and its counterpart, booking in advance, can greatly enhance a vacation. Some cities – Venice comes to mind – punish those who are not prepared.

Like other forms of snobbery, pretentiousness about food can also be a way to get around the money problem. I can’t afford to stay in five-star hotels, but with judicious preparation, I can feel superior to those thoughtless millionaires who feast on every swill their concierges suggest. In Paris, Rome or Bangkok, a meal remains the best way to learn the history of a place. Perhaps the real problem is that in Houston, a burger and a Coke is as authentic a local experience as any.