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The restaurant also serves jumbo wings, which should not be missed. The cheese-garlic chicken wings at Thank U Chicken. Or you can order a platter, which includes fried chicken gizzards, corn, fried potatoes, sweet potatoes, and fried rice, for $23.99. Prices are quite a steal for the amount of food you get, and they have a few options for if you’re feeding a crowd: a whole fried chicken (divvied up into about 12 pieces) costs around $20. The restaurant also has a long list of other chicken-based dishes like dak gom tang (chicken soup with noodles) and favorites such as rice balls, rice bowls, and stir-fried squid. Thank U Chicken has several different varieties of fried chicken on the menu, including the eponymous Thank U Chicken (traditional Korean crispy batter), yang nyum fried chicken (fried in a spicy, sweet sauce), soy sauce chicken (exactly what it sounds like), Korean street chicken (fried in a lighter batter), and spicy fried chicken (fried in a spicy sauce with vegetables). Some KFC places offer thicker batters designed to hold heavier sauces and treatments, but no matter the batter, the result is the same: crackly fried chicken that is also very moist. The result is an outer layer that crackles like egg shells. What makes Korean fried chicken different from the type we Americans have come to know (think again to that certain Kentucky-based fast food chain) is that it is double fried: first with a dry flour coating to render out the fat of the skin, and then a second time after it is coated in a thin batter. When I got back to Atlanta, I just couldn’t shake that KFC craving, so I visited relative newcomer Thank U Chicken, located in Duluth, with hopes I could reclaim some of that late-night pleasure of tearing through a platter of crispy seasoned bird.

I ate my fair share in a variety of styles, many times accompanied with a tall mug of frosty beer (some restaurants even sold frozen beer) or highly potent soju (a clear Korean liquor). I stopped seeking it out-and stopped craving it.īut on a trip to Seoul a few weeks ago, I found that Korean fried chicken (or is it just fried chicken there?) was still very much a thing. But as the hype faded, most of those spots closed, and the question of where to get super crunchy KFC in Atlanta became a little bit of a fruitless hunt. KFC joints (“Korean fried chicken,” not a certain Kentucky-based fast food chain), once clustered mainly in Duluth, popped up all over Atlanta. About ten years ago, Korean fried chicken became a bona fide American trend, and Atlanta’s vibrant Korean restaurant community jumped right on board.