Gentlemen, this is democracy manifest. What landed before me was formidable in stature. A glistening slab of chicken, panko-crumbed to a golden crisp, its surface gently yielding to the fork before revealing a core of succulent, well-rested meat. The chips were crisped to architectural perfection, hot and whispering of salt. These were not apologetic stubs from a forgotten freezer bag, but mighty, burnished spears. An unexpected flourish came in the form of a complimentary mustard selection available just inside the door: a tableau allowing quiet experimentation between bites. The apple slaw provided a bright, acidic counterpoint that danced across the palate and brought necessary levity to the parma’s decadent gravitas. In a habitual moment of genius, I decided to pair it with a Willie Smith’s non-alcoholic apple cider whose gentle effervescence sparkled with an elegant sobriety and danced across the tongue like the ghost of summer. The Napoli sauce was not an aria of complexity but still offered a clean and honest counterpoint. One does not so much finish a parma like this as survive it. You won’t leave hungry. You may, in fact, never be truly hungry again.