We move. The Sunday bit does not. If you can find the closed palace, you can find us.
Search the polite chicken. When it says CLOSED, you’re warm. Cross the street. Red truck, rooster wrap, line of people who “just wanted a sandwich today.” If you hear a generator and smell pepper oil, ignore Google — trust your nose.
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Office parks, brewery lots, and whoever texts first with a permit and a hunger problem.
Lunch push roughly 11–2. Dinner / late if the lot is good. Sunday: as long as the line believes in us. Private bookouts rewrite the clock — that’s a feature.
Map embed drops once we lock a standing lot. Until then: hit contact — or refresh Stories like you’re hunting a parking spot on Rainey.
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