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It's a law of nature: You just won't find crunchy, spicy fried chicken under a silver dome, dripping hot grease and juice onto a white linen tablecloth. Nope, premier pullet comes from a neighborhood joint with plain cardboard takeout boxes and panhandlers in the parking lot--in short, a dive like Brothers. The glassed-in cash register gives the place the air of a pawn shop, which is appropriate, since there's almost no possession we wouldn't trade for a mess of that mouthwatering yardbird with some mashed potatoes and fried okra on the side. Who needs a valet when you can get five-star food at the drive-through?