There are two things the Union Food Court Commons are known for: fried chicken and french fries. Each day they wait- as warm as their constantly-active heaters keep them before being whisked off as the most defaultist of lunches available in the Union. The chicken was a granted thing for goers of the Union Commons. It was but a quick snag that preserved meal enjoyers from the purgatorius burrito and potato bowl lines.
The fried chicken of our past was soulless. A soulless soul food made simply without love. Snacking on these phlegmatic little tenders of heartbreak, you’d likely dream of better days, better meals, better chicken.
But now is a different time, a different chicken. As was always, the Commons chicken isn’t a sort of grease-wetland. In its old form, it resembled the faint tan of the Atacama desert. But in its new herb and spicy glory, the chicken has become a crisp likeness to the red rock deserts of Arizona. It’s hot, floury surfaces mists up such a sharp but sensual scent that, with your eyes closed, you’d be certain you were at a Chick-fil-A.
There is a special kind of love a mother has for her child; it’s hers and she can’t change it (for the most part). She has this baby unplanned, keeps it, and loves it. The Union Commons chicken is the same. It is yours. It is there. It is all we have, really—and I wouldn’t ask for anything else. I’m so proud of you.
The white meat is like biting into the flesh of a newborn babe; so smooth, so soft—succulent and juicy. There is none of that fatty, slimy chicken-byproduct guck nonsense. Just pure white meat—the white of angel’s wings; but chicken.
The Union chicken is a life changing experience. I recently left my girlfriend because of this chicken. She didn’t have the crispy texture – the fried crispy texture – of this perfect chicken—the fried, succulent and spicy, crispy texture of this crispy, fried and perfect chicken. I don’t love her anymore. All I love is you, my dear chicken.
And you can love it too. This love is to share. Leave your beloveds behind, cancel your finals, quit your job and your classes; punch your professor in the face. Go to the Union Commons Food Court. Buy the new fried chicken. They make it good now. It is good. Name one thing better than the fried chicken. Name it. You can’t.