Kawa

Mostly the skin from around the neck. The first bite snaps through a crisp membrane, then melted fat seeps out right underneath. The skin itself carries little flavor of its own — it's the fat's sweetness and browned aroma doing all the work, which is why it's so often paired with beer. Shops split between grilling it bone-dry crisp and leaving it soft and yielding, and regulars often say which way they want it grilled.

A single flat piece of skin is too thin and would overcook, so it's folded accordion-style and layered onto the skewer. A short piece gets one fold, a long one two or three, evening out the thickness along the whole skewer so it cooks evenly. Because piece size varies bird to bird, the amount is weighed out first and the folding adjusted accordingly. That folding is what gives the skewer its wavy profile when viewed from the side, letting fat render out while the surface still crisps evenly.

Skin is, by nature, a leftover cut from butchering the bird, awkward to handle on its own. Folding it onto a skewer turns its abundance of fat from a liability into the whole point of the dish. It's a case, within a cuisine built around wasting none of the bird, where a bit of prep ingenuity — folding rather than laying it flat — maps directly onto how the finished skin ends up chewing.