A couple nights ago, I went to a restaurant in St. Louis—called Juniper for those curious—that had hands down the best fried chicken I’d ever tasted. Now, as someone from Nashville, laying claim to the best fried chicken outside of Tennessee, much less outside the South, is a bit like saying that Cincinnati’s chili can’t hold a candle to the stuff in New York. It just doesn’t happen, but it did.
Tonight, I ate the leftover chicken I had brought home, which is always a bit of an adventure because chicken just doesn’t keep well. And yet, the first bite brought back all of those happy memories; the second reminded me that this was leftovers; and three through the finish showed I didn’t care.