(FORTUNE Magazine) – Some people believe in hard work, others in democracy, still others in marriage. I believe in chicken. I especially like chicken out--in these settings, to be precise:

At a roadhouse under a bridge by the railroad tracks. For the past quarter-century, Stroud's has had the best boast in the business: "We choke our own chickens." Post-choke, the chicken is cooked in an iron skillet in vegetable oil and lard. It's a laborious, hot, grease-popping, Kansas City experience that screams "not fast food."

At a family-style mountain gorge-a-thon. This Sunday head to the tiny Shenandoah crossroads of Syria, Va. At long tables, you can eat as much Southern fried chicken as your conscience and constitution permit. Now that it's fall, you can add homemade apple butter, taste the Brunswick stew cooked over an open fire, and work off the calories by picking apples in the orchard.

At a barbecue poultry palace. At St-Hubert chicken joints, the chicken is crisp, the atmosphere has a Quebecois flavor, and side dishes are covered with gloppy gravy and cheese curd. Special kitschy attraction: The kids' meals have chicken breasts shaped like animals.

At a picnic table beside a bustling roadway. Since I was a kid I've worshiped the chicken at Good Luck Farms in Lynnfield, Mass., roasted in the grand New England tradition--absolutely plain. No seasonings, no sauces. In recent years salmon and tuna have been added to the menu. Stick with the chicken. After all, the chicken never lets you down.

--David Shribman