I don’t like fried chicken. I like the idea of fried chicken. I like the smell, and the looks of it. I like the down homey soul of a fried chicken meal. Then I eat it and all of that love infused bouncy idea of what fried chicken means becomes laden down. I then slide off to the corner on a trail paved with fryer grease and regret.
Except at Gus’. I am not saying there is no grease. There is grease. There is more grease than John Travolta, Olivia Newton John and all the Pink Ladies together could have imagined. But there is no regret.