Chicken so good I texted my dad

Perhaps I’m revealing my millennial tendencies here, but one of my preferred weekend formats — and I have several — goes like this: iced coffee in hand (the ice miraculously slow to melt, the straw sturdy enough to survive the afternoon), weather warm enough to ditch the bulky coat but cool enough that neither I nor my to-go cup are sweating, and a slow, looping pilgrimage from thrift store to bookstore to stationery shop and back to thrift store again.

Several weeks ago, on an unseasonably warm winter afternoon in Chicago...