Fried chicken is divisive. I write this because it's one of those foods that makes usually reasonable (OK, occasionally reasonable) people carry on like unpleasable idealists eager to disagree.

Fried chicken is divisive. I write this because its one of those foods that makes usually reasonable (OK, occasionally reasonable) people carry on like unpleasable idealists eager to disagree.

For instance, Im sure youve witnessed someone recommend fried chicken to another eater (whos undoubtedly nostalgic for an allegedly hallowed version tasting better in memory than on the plate) wholl later pooh-pooh said recommendation harshly. Why such doubters many of whom will regularly rip through greasy pizzas and cheap hamburgers apply such exalted standards to fried chicken specifically is a continual source of confusion and humor to me.

For narrative structure and to circumvent this fate, Ill employ compare and contrast tactics on the fine fried chicken and better-than-grandma-style accessories I recently tried at Myas fried chicken truck. Here goes.

Since Harlan Sanders was dubbed an honorary Kentucky colonel after achieving fame selling fried chicken out of a gas station, I expect the proprietors of Myas it operates out of a Clintonville convenience store parking lot will achieve a decidedly higher ranking. General Myas fried chicken anyone? Chief of staff Myas? How about Secretary of Poultry Myas?

Myas menu closely resembles KFCs, and that makes comparing it easy. For starters, at KFC, eight grease-leaking, fat-and-batter-caked, factory-farm-raised and incredibly salty little chicken pieces (might feed three) with four pretty good biscuits and two large sides cost $19. At Myas, $20 will get you eight surprisingly large pieces (can feed four or more) of clean-tasting, tender and juicy, slightly greasy Ohio-raised chicken with a light and crispy crust enlivened by rosemary. Oh, and its paired with four heavy duty, golden-brown biscuits that are nearly as sweet as cornbread.

Side-wise, Myas homey, smoky-from-bacon green beans and dense, skin-on, authentically lumpy smashed redskin potatoes regally crowned with a satiny and outstanding, pan-dripping gravy flaunting concentrated chicken flavor admittedly cost extra ($4 each for medium-sized servings). But compared to KFCs watery green beans and pathetically rehydrated, box-tasting taters, like Myas chicken, those sides are indisputably worth just a few dollars more.

Photo by Tim Johnson