I’d drive a long way for a good piece of fried chicken.
One day in August many years ago, my wife, our daughters, and I were heading off for our annual vacation in Michigan. The plan was to hit the road “early”—no later than noon—so we could make the 8 PM closing time at Old Hamlin, a restaurant in Ludington, Michigan, that makes a pretty good fried chicken.
Point is, the whole family was snarling like bears as we hit the road. I blamed my wife for being late and she blamed me and the kids were blaming each other. As I recall, one may have actually thrown a punch as they sat squeezed between the suitcases in the rear seat of the car. But don’t quote me on that.
And that, my friends, is how we discovered Taqueria Traspasada, our favorite Mexican restaurant in Chicago.
I ordered the pollo Milanese (breaded chicken). It was so good I was practically making little moaning sounds as I wolfed it down.
As we ate, our grumpiness faded until it was like party time at the taqueria! My wife had a cantarito, one of those fruity alcoholic drinks that comes in a clay cup that the waiter said was made in some town in Mexico.
