Deep-Fried Devotion: A Night with Waldo’s Chicken in Owasso

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Friday. Time gets slippery when you’re chasing flavor. I pulled into the parking lot of Waldo’s Chicken and Beer in Owasso—half-hungry, half-curious who would be crazy enough to open ANOTHER chicken restaurant in town.

If there are two things Owasso knows by heart, it’s churches and chicken—and Dino Nithianandan, the proprietor and self-appointed poultry pastor, has gone and built the First Church of Comfort Food right in the middle of it all. And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, I’ve seen the light—and it’s golden-fried and served with a side of cheddar biscuits.

You don’t meet Dino so much as you feel him—this gravitational pull of energy, hustle, and perfectly controlled chaos. He’s not just the owner. He’s the head coach, the hype man, the quality control czar. You’ll catch him gliding from table to table, cracking jokes, checking on food like a man who’s personally accountable for every bite that leaves the kitchen. Because he is. This isn’t some absentee restaurateur phoning it in from a Carlton Landing lake house. Dino is in the trenches. A sharp eye on the line. Always moving, always watching.

The place sits unassumingly across from Best Buy (in the old Carl’s Junior spot), looking harmless enough. But let me tell you—this isn’t your average strip-mall chicken joint. No, sir. This is the kind of spot where the smell of deep-fried dreams wafts through the air and hooks you before you even touch the door handle. So take a seat, open up the hymnal to Page 296 and let’s begin.

Oh Queso Divine

They hit you early with it—Chips & Queso. An appetizer, sure, but it’s more like a ceremonial rite of passage. One bite and I knew I was in trouble. The queso was creamy, peppery gold, with just enough kick to make your forehead glisten. The chips? Crispy, salty boats ferrying molten cheese down the hatch. Dangerous. Delicious. Potentially habit-forming.

Down To The River To Fry

Next up: the Catfish Sandwich. A golden-fried slab of fish so tender it nearly wept. Crispy edges, pillowy bun, a whisper of sauce and tangy slaw that felt like a Southern grandma whispering sweet nothings to my taste buds. It was indulgent, but somehow not overwhelming—like it knew exactly how far to push without tipping into food coma territory. Available only on Fridays.

Come Thou Fount Of Crispy Blessing

But then came the one they all talk about. “The O.G.” Fried Chicken Sandwich. This thing didn’t arrive on a plate—it arrived like a statement. The kind of sandwich that makes lesser sandwiches question their existence. Light, flaky breading crackled beneath my teeth, giving way to juicy, seasoned chicken that tasted like it had been blessed by poultry gods. It wasn’t just good. It was emotional. I nearly called my mother afterward.

It Is Well (With My Bowl)

Somewhere in the haze of fried ecstasy, I made a brief attempt at health: the Chicken Scratch Salad. Crisp greens, fried chicken (of course), a vinaigrette that didn’t feel like punishment. It was a solid palate cleanser—a well-constructed nod to the nutritionally responsible—but let’s be real: I was already dreaming about my next culinary affair.

Cheddar Be The Day

Listen, I’ve eaten biscuits. I’ve had buttery, flaky ones in backroad diners. Dry ones that crumble like old memories. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the cheddar biscuits at Waldo’s.

They don’t arrive quietly. No, these golden little pillows of sin come out warm enough to fog your glasses, with steam rising like they just escaped the oven by sheer willpower. And that cheddar? It’s not some afterthought shredded on top. It’s baked in, woven into the dough like a secret passed down through generations of Southern grandmothers who knew what the hell they were doing.

You bite in—and it’s soft, warm, salty, cheesy, a little sweet on the finish—and for a moment, everything feels okay in the world. Rent’s late? Who cares. Your car won’t start? Let it burn. You're sitting in Waldo’s, with a cheddar biscuit in one hand and a cold beer in the other. You’ve made it. You’ve arrived.

These aren’t side items. These are main character energy in biscuit form. They’re the kind of thing you order “for the table” and then pull a power move and eat three before anyone else gets wise. If you leave Waldo’s without at least trying the cheddar biscuits, I’m not mad. I’m just deeply, deeply disappointed.

In Hops Alone

And then there was beer. Cold. Reliable. Comforting. The selection at Waldo’s isn’t trying to impress you with fancy tap handles or Belgian names you can’t pronounce. It’s there to do its job—cut the grease, chill the mood, and make you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The Vibe? Pure Owasso Charm

Waldo’s isn’t loud or flashy. It doesn’t need to be. It’s got the kind of casual charm that makes you want to come back before you’ve even left. It’s where you bring your friends, your hangover, your kids, or your questionable Tinder date. Happy hour runs late, the crowd is chill, and no one judges if you order another round of queso at 9:45 p.m. on a Wednesday.

The Verdict

So what is Waldo’s Chicken and Beer, really? It’s more than just another chicken joint in a town already glutted with golden-fried options. It’s a spiritual experience wrapped in crispy breading and served with a side of cheddar biscuit salvation. It’s where full-service bar meets Southern sanctuary, where Dino—equal parts restaurateur, ringmaster, and Poultry Pastor—presides over the First Church of Comfort Food with a fiery passion and a fryer that never sleeps. The vibes? Immaculate. Open concept, custom wallpaper, wall-to-wall TVs, and beer flowing like baptismal waters for the weary and wing-craving. Waldo’s isn’t just serving meals—it’s delivering sermons, one glorious bite at a time. Amen, and pass the queso.