To describe the options as endless doesn’t quite capture the reality of Seoul’s street food scene, a Technicolor and wildly aromatic cacophony of sizzling, searing, stir-frying, skewering and steaming that unfolds in tiny back alley pockets and sprawling markets at every turn across this city of nearly 10 million—dare I generalize—food-­obsessed people.

There are skewers threaded with pork and chicken, which cooks blowtorch to charred perfection. There are chunks of sweet potatoes tossed in giant woks until lacquered with a sweet glaze. There are deep-fried baby crabs, deep-fried balls of cheese and noodles, deep-fried paper-­thin dried squid. There are half-shell scallops grilled and topped with cheese. There are dumplings, steamed, fried or both. There are doughy-crisp cakes fried from mung beans ground on the spot.

And let me speak quite plainly here—that’s not even the beginning. But as you eat your way across the South Korean capital—a city of towering mirrored buildings and glowing electric signs piled one upon the other reaching skyward—the treat most often on repeat is fried chicken. Inordinate varieties, affectionately referred to as KFC. Korean fried chicken.

After considering dozens of choices for my first taste, I select Jangan Tong Dalk, the sort of shop where one wall holds a massive menu of chicken and beer options, the others are crowded with crates of beer. The tables are outfitted with three buttons, one each for ordering more chicken, beer or soju, a sweet Korean liquor that also frequents fried chicken joints.

We order an embarrassing flock, one of nearly everything on the menu, all of it fried to order. Whether whole or bits, the process mostly is the same. Raw chicken is dunked in a thin batter. Or rather, a slurry. Batter implies thickness, and this had almost none. From there, it goes immediately into a cauldron of oil. Flattened cardboard lines the floor to catch splashes.

The chicken fries for just a few minutes, then is scooped out with a massive mesh ladle. It rests for a bit on paper, then back into the oil for a few more minutes. From there, back onto paper, then into a large bowl where it is drenched and tossed with a sweet and spicy sauce of gochujang, garlic, sugar and spices.

Not to get all hyperbolic, but the taste is otherworldly. And the texture! The coating is ethereally thin, yet as satisfyingly crisp as the perfect potato chip. The meat is so moist I have to check myself. Was it fully cooked? It was! And that sauce ... It hits every note, high and low, in that maddeningly delicious way that keeps you going back for more.

All of which is to say, this is fried chicken that has leveled up. Many times over.

There are fried chicken traditionalists, the folks who swear allegiance to a buttermilk soak, heavy batters, heavy breading and even heavier frying. If that’s what you prefer, godspeed. I am not among those people.

I have a decidedly unorthodox approach to fried chicken. It’s an admittedly tedious affair in which naked chicken is seasoned and cooked low and slow via sous vide. Meltingly moist, it then is chilled, floured, egged, breaded and flash fried. Because the meat is cooked before it is coated and briefly fried, it never overcooks or becomes tough or sodden with oil.

But did I mention how tedious a process it is? Without question, it is amazing. And it works perfectly every time. The chicken I tasted in Seoul, however, surpassed it many times over. The meat was more moist and tender. The coating thinner and wildly crispier. And the whole affair was simpler and faster. I needed to know more.

Some historians say South Korea’s affinity for fried chicken can be traced back centuries, but most agree that it didn’t gain cultural traction until the 1970s, when both chicken and cooking oil became more affordable. A robust American military presence—itself heavily influenced by the fry-loving culinary traditions of the American South—undoubtedly played a part.

Today, it is the country’s most consumed fast food. In fact, by some counts, South Korea has more than 87,000 restaurants serving it. For anyone keeping track, that works out to roughly one eatery for every 598 people. That’s a lot of fried chicken.