Coked-out longhairs chewing your ear off at a bar aren’t typically known to be the most credible sources on the planet. But they’re loud, so they’re bound to be heard—and once in a blue moon, one of their snowballs actually has a chance in Hell. Such is the scenario that led to my discovery of Quick Pack Food Mart’s sensational fried chicken.

Months ago, I stopped into Mona’s near Greenlake after work for a drink. Mona’s being Mona’s, I talked myself into ordering a full meal, and found myself seated next to a gregarious, twitchy little fellow with a flowing black mane who’d obviously been riding the rails that day. He talked and talked, and talked some more. Somewhere in the course of his monologue, he mentioned that there was a mini-mart at MLK and Jackson that “served the best fucking fried chicken in the city.”

Smack addicts can’t kick smack. Me, I can’t kick fried chicken, even as my beltline expands. Even bad fried chicken tastes good to me, so when someone brands a given establishment’s bird as “the best” or even “good,” that’s the shit and I’m the fly, even if the person making the recommendation is a few shots removed from sobriety. So eventually, to MLK and Jackson I went, with a healthy pinch of skepticism lodged in my uvula.

Convenience stores are great for what they portend: convenience. Need a cheap deuce-four of Bud or a quick Milky Way, and you couldn’t ask for more. But prepared food usually isn’t their strong suit; only in the most desperate circumstances do most humans consume a mini-mart meal, and never without an antacid chaser. Quick Pack Food Mart, however, is the sharp and shiny needle in this fetid haystack. Upon following up on the Mona’s tip, I spent five minutes waiting in line, during which half-a-dozen people marched up to the counter and ordered one thing: fried chicken. After I took my chicken and Dr Pepper (did you know Dr Pepper’s been around since 1885? I sure didn’t) to a nearby park for a picnic lunch, I realized what all the fuss is about.

Quick Pack’s fried chicken is moist and spicy; the spiciness, actually, is what really makes it. (Quick Pack’s management wouldn’t reveal their recipe.) The space itself is spartan even by mini-mart standards, more reminiscent of a check-cashing business or bail bondsman’s digs, and the non-chicken items on its shelves are relatively scarce. As for what’s in the hot case: Jo-Jo’s and chicken, but mostly just chicken, replenished often. When you’ve got a great thing going, tunnel vision is the name of the game.

mseely@seattleweekly.com