If they rendered the old grease from Mr. Chicken and used it to fuel an RTA bus, there'd be some grubber fat chick from Twinsburg Heights chewing on the tailpipe grunting and carrying on about how good it is. What could you do? She'd be right. It's that good.
Mr. Chicken is awesome and greasy and classy and old school and you can get fries there you can't even figure out how they got that way but they taste good. And the chicken? Fried. Awesome. You'd do well to gnaw on some of it in your car or sitting at the curb looking out at the traffic.
You can't even argue with Mr. Chicken. If you were Mrs. Chicken, even then you'd have to agree with him all the time. He's a little old and rundown but he knows his chicken and it tastes like it ought to taste from a place like this.
Awhile back, at the end of the night Mr. Chicken would bag up the extras and sell it to families that were down on their luck. People would sit in junker cars and then there was a sort of unwritten set of rules on how you scored the chicken they were going to throw away. Now they just throw it away. It's easier that way.
They ought to make awesome greasy chicken salad with it. Maybe some grapes in there. And walnuts. Something for the suggestion box. Or fry up the skin as a tapas. I tell you, wasting that much food is a sin. The maggots are eating too well out here.
But that doesn't mean their chicken isn't good. It tastes good and you can order all kinds of dark meat or white meat and it all gets tossed into some wild pressure fryer which infuses each piece with enough hot oil to insure that it can't be dry and it will weep grease in your fridge which goes well with a late night beer or if you're daring a Pepto-tini which is equal parts cherry flavored pepto bismol and Grey Goose, shaken.
I can't say enough about Mr. Chicken.