It comes out of the kitchen looking like nothing special, but maybe it's more like a sneak attack: a couple chicken breasts, largely unadorned but for a puddle of melted butter and maybe a sprig of herb, served in a simple cast-iron skillet, not a vegetable or starch or other side in sight. I could make this at home, you think for the approximately fifteen seconds between when you see it and when you take your first bite, which is about when any thought of replicating such magic begins to feel embarrassingly hubristic. Unfathomably moist and meaty on the inside, with a crackly-crunchy-fatty-delicious layer of crispy skin on the outside (the product of a two-step process, in which the chicken is fried and then roasted), this is the kind of dish you'll find yourself craving days and even weeks later. This is chicken at its perfect, platonic best: Side dishes or sauces would just be a distraction.
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