Finger. Lickin. Great.

So you just drove all night, from Canada to Kentucky, in November.

Its raining.  Its cold outside.  Damn right you're having the chicken, and there is only one place you're gonna have it.   

The original.  The Parkette.  

Established in 1951, this iconic drive in was the original "kentucky fried chicken", and while it might have been the inspiration for the colonel, when it comes to chicken, this place is the god damned chairman of the joint chiefs.

When you arrive at the Parkette,

you've got two options, you can old school it and order right from your parking space (and they will serve you in the car), or you can head inside and grab a booth.  As I mentioned, I had just driven 1000 kilometres to get there, so I was ready to stretch my legs.  As it happened, a booth was ready, and believe me, so was I.

 There is a surprising array of selection on the menu.  Everything from shrimp to pulled pork sandwiches, but who are they kidding?  I didn't come here for a poor boy (not this time).

Under different circumstances, I might be uncomfortable if a charming black man handed me something and said "taste that, you gonna love how thick it is", but when Jimmy brought me my chocolate shake, I had to admit, he was right.  

Shake in hand, I knew what I wanted to eat.  There was no need to waste time.  I ordered the half chicken dinner, all dark (white meat is for suckers).  

The anticipation was palpable, but it was soon abated.  Jimmy, hooked me up.  When my meal arrived, I got exactly what I expected.  This wasn't fine dining.  The plastic basket told me that, but I knew it was going to be incredible none the less.  I just wasn't prepared for how incredible.

Yeah it's greasy.  Yes it's salty.  But who cares???  You don't come here for kale and tofu.

One bite and you are over the edge.  I don't care who you are, your mouth is simply not ready for what the Parkette is going to do to you.  Choosing a thigh (I've always been a leg man), I sink my teeth into the most tender juicy crispy mouthwatering rendition of a 

poultry induced mouthgasm that I have ever tasted, including my own (and trust me I make some pretty damn fine chicken myself.  but not like this.  Never, like thisss)

I am beyond my happy place.  I literally have to fight the urge to drag my meal into a nearby corner and growl, with fangs exposed, at the potential rivals who will undoubtedly be encircling me at any moment to try and take whats mine.  

Fortunately, it doesn't happen.  The wolves do not attack.  Apparently they have all got their own little baskets full of happiness, and they too are all consumed in devouring each morsel.  So the next time you are in Kentucky (or within 500 miles in any direction), you know what you've gotta do.  And if it happens to be in the springtime, I've heard they also have a horse race or something that happens, so you might wanna check that out too.