Born in the country of the Colonel, raised in the town of Chicken Betty, I thought  I  knew my Fried Chicken. Kansas City, Missouri, bred and fed, I chomped my milk teeth on crispy breasts served up at the Wishbone Restaurant and hurried home from college breads to feast at Stroude -“We choke our own chickens” –on platters of crunchy gizzards, white meat. Cottage fries and warm cinnamon rolls. Whenever I return, I make one of my first stops Grandmother’s, another of itinerant cook Chicken Betty’s temporary homes, where the huge chicken breasts look like they were raised by Arnold Schwarzenegger and the waitresses beam with smiles like “Have A Good Day” buttons. So I am no stranger to fried chicken. I solved the philosophical riddle long ago: the chicken definitely came firs

Having taken wing  from Kansas City 30 years ago I have remained loyal to my place of birth, believing when it comes to fried chicken, “everything is up-to-date in Kansas City”. Wrong. Move over Chicken Betty, you’ve got competition. But don’t worry, it’s half a world away –Restoran Sri Gangka, in a suburb of Kuala Lumpur.

Since May 1984 the Ramachendren brothers have been serving the world’s best fried chicken seven days a week in their banana leaf restaurant on a street of nondescript shop houses in Petaling Jaya, a community midway between Subang Airport and downtown Kuala Lumpur.It ‘s a plain place; tile floor, fluorescent lights, formica-top tables and metal chairs for about 60. At the far end of the restaurant is a steam table with platters of food waiting to appease bottomless Malaysian stomachs and a work table where the roti cansi man pounds the fist –size balls of dough into thin airy discs, stretching, swirling, before folding the roti onto a greased skillet for quick frying.

Come for breakfast before nine. As I first did, and the place is jammed, every table full. Chinese, Malay and Indians sitelbow to elbow; the restaurant’s a microcosm of the country’s multiracial mix. It’s alive with noise and motion: the smack of dough slammed hard atop the stainless steel table, Indian and Indonesian waiters shouting out their orders to the cook who shouts back when the food is ready, the waiters hurrying to pick up glasses of tea while the rich, light brown liquid is still frothy from its ribbony dance in air between pitcher and glass.

The quietest folk are the customers, reading their papers, dipping pieces of roti in plastic plates brimming with dal or tangy fish curry sauce. Some eat tosi, a thin, sweeter bread the size of an old LP record, served on a large metal tray with compartments for dal, fish curry and coconut chutney. Plain and onion tosi are served daily and on Friday there is paper tosi, an almost diaphanous version that is twirled into a cone resembling a dunce cap, and masala tosi, which is folded and stuffed with potatoes, carrots, green beans and corn cooked in a mild curry sauce.

But you are only at heaven’s gate the fried chicken won’t be ready until lunch. It sits at the bottom of the cooler, beneath shelves of soft drinks and beer, marinading in a mix of curry, cumin and other secret spices- acherubic P Ramachendren smiles and speaks only of “a Family recipe with special ingredients”. Unlike Western-style fried chicken which is dipped in a batter of flour and egg before frying, Sri Gangka chicken has only its marinade. When asked what makes his chicken special, Ramachendren does allow that he has bought his chickens fresh from the same Malay supplier for almost nine years and that he changes the oil in the small deep fat fryer every day –he tried when he first opened to use the oil a second day but it was salty.

It is still hard for me, a confirmed whitemeat man, to accept that the moist, juicy pieces I ate at Sri Gangka were drumsticks and thighs, It goes against all my Midwestern upbringing to believe dark meat can taste this good.

Fridays, Sri Gangka also offers Concorde chicken. An upmarket name for a down home dish that involves curry leaves. Fennel and dried chillies. Customers drive all the eay from Kuala Lumpur for this speciality. I overheard one saying to Ramachendren as he entered: “If you don’t have chicken. Ishoot you.” Pacifist tat I am. I can understand his sentiments completely.