Craving fried chicken is a bone-deep thing, a call to both body and soul, a cry for crisp, salty, moist chicken and something else too--a cry for connection. Last time we were at the Midtown Chicken Shack, a 1/4-white dinner was on the way when we got to thinking about gizzards. So the hollering began: "Hey, how do you do your gizzards?" "Huh?" asked the counterman. "How do you do your gizzards?" "With flour." Okay, then. So he pops a couple of gizzards into the deep fryer, and away we go. We try one: it's the chewiest damned thing. Counterman comes out. We pretend to like them, after he went to all the trouble. He looks around quizzically, says, "Damn, I've never even tried 'em--what do you think?" We hold out the plate and he pops one into his mouth, then purses his face. "Chewy!" he says. Dude! But the fried chicken, now that's another matter.