CHAPTER 176: FRIED CHICKEN EXPERIMENT

The day after Mcronald’s triumphant reopening, the shop was quiet. No sizzling patties, no clatter of trays, no cheerful hum of customers swapping stories over burgers and fries. The front windows were still shuttered, sunlight slipping in only through the side gaps. The air inside was cooler than usual, scented faintly of yesterday’s cooking oil.

Inigo was in the kitchen early, sleeves rolled up, apron already dusted with flour. A sack of fresh poultry sat on the counter beside him, wrapped in butcher paper from the morning market. He untied it, revealing cuts of chicken—drumsticks, thighs, wings—pink and ready for something new.

Lyra leaned against the counter opposite him, coffee mug in hand. She was dressed in her usual tunic and pants, no apron yet, hair loosely tied back. "We already have a line for tomorrow," she said, sipping. "Why are we making things harder on ourselves?"

"Because," Inigo replied, taking a drumstick and holding it up like an artifact, "burgers and fries are great, but you know what people in my world would fight over? Fried chicken. Golden, crispy, juicy fried chicken."

Lyra smirked. "We already fry potatoes. How different can it be?"

"Very," Inigo said, grinning. "Potatoes don’t try to stay raw in the middle or turn into leather if you mess up."

Maddy stepped through the back door, carrying a small crate of eggs. She set them gently on the counter and looked between them. "So... is this for a new menu item?"

"That’s the plan," Inigo said. "You, Riko, and Lyra get to be the first taste-testers."

"I’m in," Maddy said immediately.

Riko, who had been sweeping the dining area, popped his head through the service window. "If it’s food, I’ll try anything."

"Good," Inigo said, clapping his hands. "First, we prep. Lyra, you’re on flour and seasoning. Maddy, egg wash. Riko, keep the counter clear and help with cleanup—this is going to get messy."

Lyra set her mug down with a sigh, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes. "What goes in the seasoning?"

Inigo opened a small leather pouch and began pulling out jars—salt, pepper, paprika, garlic powder, crushed dried herbs he’d found in the local market. "In my world, the exact mix is a trade secret, but I’ll make my own version. Needs to be flavorful enough to stand on its own, even without sauce."

They worked together, the kitchen filling with the sharp scent of spice and the faint must of flour. Lyra mixed the dry ingredients in a wide bowl, her hands surprisingly careful, while Maddy cracked eggs into another bowl, whisking them until smooth.

"Alright," Inigo said, "here’s the flow—chicken goes into the flour first, then the egg, then back into the flour for a thick coat. Then we drop it in the oil. Riko, how’s the fryer?"

Riko checked the large pot on the stove, where oil was slowly heating. "Still climbing. You want it hotter?"

"Yeah, up to about three-fifty," Inigo said. He saw Riko’s confused look and added, "Hot enough that a breadcrumb sizzles right away but doesn’t burn instantly."

They set up an assembly line. Lyra handled the first flour coating, passing the chicken to Maddy for the egg wash, then back to Lyra for the second flour dip. Inigo monitored the oil, watching for the shimmer that told him it was ready.

"First batch," Lyra said, setting four drumsticks on a tray.

Inigo carefully lowered them into the oil. The kitchen exploded with sound—the furious bubbling of hot oil, the sizzle that promised something worth waiting for. The scent changed instantly, from raw spice to the rich, mouthwatering aroma of frying meat.

"Oh, that smells good," Riko said, leaning in.

"Don’t crowd the pot," Inigo warned. "And don’t touch—hot oil is no joke."

They watched as the coating slowly turned golden. Inigo used tongs to turn each piece, checking for even color. "Almost there. Chicken takes longer than fries, so we give it time."

When the first batch was done, he set it on a rack over a tray to drain. The crust was golden-brown, flecked with herbs, still crackling from the fryer.

"Testers, front and center," Inigo said, passing out small plates.

Maddy took the first bite, her eyes going wide. "It’s... crunchy. And juicy. And—oh gods, that seasoning."

Riko tore into his piece, nodding vigorously. "Better than anything I’ve had at the fair."

Lyra took her bite more slowly, then set the drumstick down. "This," she said, "is dangerous."

Inigo grinned. "Dangerous good?"

"Dangerous like, people might stop ordering burgers if this is on the menu."

"That’s why we balance it," Inigo said, already prepping the next batch. "Fried chicken meals on certain days only. Keeps demand high, keeps it special."

They ran through more chicken, adjusting the seasoning slightly with each batch—more paprika, less salt, a touch more garlic. By the fourth round, Inigo was satisfied.

"This is it," he said, setting down a plate of perfectly fried pieces. "The Mcronald’s Golden Fry Special. Served with fries, of course."

"Fries with fried chicken?" Riko asked.

"Absolutely," Inigo said. "In my world, that’s half the point."

They kept cooking until the chicken was gone, the kitchen now hazy with the lingering smell of oil and spice. When the last plate was cleared, the four of them sat at one of the tables in the empty dining area, eating the leftovers.

"I can see it now," Maddy said between bites. "People lining up before opening, just like yesterday."

"Then we’ll need to advertise," Lyra said, wiping her hands. "Not just a sign—something that makes people talk."

Inigo leaned back, thinking. "A special chalkboard out front. Maybe a little slogan. ’Crispy, Juicy, Only on Fried-day.’"

"That’s awful," Lyra said, but she was smiling.

Riko snorted. "I’d still come in for it."

As they cleaned up, Inigo wrote down the final recipe in a small notebook—measurements, cooking time, everything. He tucked it into his apron pocket like a treasure.

When the kitchen was spotless again, he gathered them near the counter. "Alright, team. Tomorrow we roll out burgers and fries as usual. The day after... we debut the fried chicken. Small batches, first come first served."

Maddy and Riko exchanged excited looks. Lyra just crossed her arms, pretending to be unimpressed. "Let’s hope your chicken’s as good under pressure as it was today."

"It will be," Inigo said confidently.

As they left for the evening, locking up the shop, the scent of fried chicken still clung to the air. Inigo knew that smell alone would be enough to pull people in off the street. And when they took that first bite, Mcronald’s would no longer be just the place for burgers and fries—it would be the place for fried chicken too.