![]() Indeed, much like my abstracted interpretation of a Harold’s chicken sandwich, Piñata sits at the beautifully uncanny nexus of reality and fantasy. And you know what? Somewhere between the salt and the grease, between that dulcet Madlib sample and Gibbs’ combustion cadence, it tasted pretty much like Piñata told me it would. ![]() So I took some chicken tenders and a handful of french fries, wedged them between two pieces of white bread, slathered the whole affair in hot sauce, and did my best to satisfy this strange, synesthetic craving that had taken ahold of me. But after listening to Piñata, I had become possessed by this strangely lucid notion of what a six-piece combo from the Chicago chicken joint would taste like. Which was strange to me, because I’ve never even been to Harold’s. ![]() A couple weeks back, I developed an insatiable craving for fried chicken from Harold’s Chicken Shack.
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