Call me Chicken Princess


I am probably what marketers think of as the young sophisticated professional. Cultured, educated, interested in new experiences and with at least a certain degree of purchasing power. The kind of people who travel to, I don’t know, rural Chile and eat experimental Balinese food.

But then there’s the real me: I would only go to Chile if you paid me to (no offense, Chile) and when A asked me on our penultimate day of vacation what I would like to eat, I blurted, „Rotisserie chicken!“ From one of the large grills outside the local supermarket, where the chickens are skewered on a large sword, rotating via an electric motor. That’s how sophisticated I am.

A googled the closest chicken grill and located it 20 minutes away from us by car. For those of you unfamiliar with the German chicken grill infrastructure: that’s pretty far. Normally, you would just abandon the plan and go to McDonald’s instead. But A, unflinchingly, got in his car with me to go to what was called „Der Hähnchenprinz“, the Chicken Prince. If the whole expedition wasn’t already tacky, the name made sure we were steering away from high class experimental cuisine. But does that matter when you (after 25 minutes in line) get to eat delicious roasted chicken that reminds you of when mom surprised you with chicken for dinner after having been to the supermarket? I feasted on the greasy chicken with ketchup and fries, evidently content with my meal. „You’re my chicken princess“, A commented amused.


The Chicken Prince sign without the roasted chicken on it. Sad.


Afterwards, we went to the park Utkiek. It is apparently a former rubbish tip.


A was somewhat concerned, as it had a ghettoesque charm to it

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