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Showing posts from January, 2020


Cathey makes dynamite fried chicken. Dynamite. Once a year. If I insist. Too messy, she says. Makes the kitchen all greasy, she says. Then, today, next to the podiatrist's office, I see a sign. Fried Chicken. You're kidding, right? Wrong. Real fried chicken. Not Cathey's fried chicken. No, not top tier. But real fried chicken. And better than the local KFC. I tried KFC in Narbonne once. I was desperate. I'll never go back. But I'll go back to Chicken Times in Beziers. Crispy on the outside, hot on the inside, with just enough grease to let you know that these wing pieces were definitely not oven baked. Real fried chicken. In Beziers. With decent, if pre-cut and frozen, frites. And Cathey said that her burger was flame broiled. Real fried chicken. 3 Boulevard Maréchal Leclerc. Cathey visits the podiatrist for a checkup in four months. I can't wait.