A long time ago, somebody gave me a few words of marital advice that I ended up not needing: “Never learn how to fry a chicken.” The idea behind this pearl, I presumed, is that once your spouse gets a taste for tender, juicy meat pressure-cooked inside the hermetic seal of its own crackled mahogany skin—well, you might never leave the kitchen. Forget that. When my imaginary husband and I want to chomp into chicken wings with shatteringly crisp skin that gives way, with just a tug, to meat imbued with close-to-the-bone flavor—so tender and delicious that we don’t even use napkins but rather just lick our lips and fingers like cavepeople—we take our seats at The Libertine Liquor Bar (38 E. Washington St., 317-631-3333). The confit appendages (basically, fried twice) are tiny by today’s standards, just a couple of messy nibbles each, piled on the plate like a chicken wing orgy with loose hunks of creamy blue cheese tucked in between the pieces and a smear of Frank’s Red Sauce decorating the plate. I love them so much, I make my imaginary husband order his own. I’ve never been very good at sharing.