We performed in Saginaw this evening: a rowdy, rambunctious chock-full show at a big, beautiful old theater. But the charms of Saginaw itself escaped Jon and I, so we headed for the amusingly named Frankenmuth. Whose charms also escaped us.
We had hope, because Frankenmuth is famous --in an extraordinarily meager sort of way-- for the world's most renown Bavarian Chicken Feud. As the story goes, a German family with a complicated name that I can't be bothered to reproduce here developed a recipe for Bavarian Fried Chicken that garnered a following. Then the inevitable familial rift. Germans are very quarrelsome and cannot get along even with themselves, it seems. In a fit of pique, one limb of the family tree moved themselves across the street, created yet another over-sized Bavarian chicken palace and now the two factions glare at each across a 50 yard no-man's land, the air redolent with the baleful aroma of Bavarian chicken.
For let there be no mistake: Bavarian Fried Chicken is flat-out awful. The breading is lumpen, morose, and bland....sort of like Germans themselves. The chicken seems to have been reverse-basted to remove all flavor, and the side dishes strained to compete for the epitome of starchy tastelessness; excepting the stuffing, which we suspected had been soaked in Bain de Soleil for some reason. We pushed things listlessly around on our plates for a while and dolefully regarded the authentically-garbed accordionist that wandered between the tables. Even his teenage shame and humiliation could not recompense us for this dreary repast. Moral, I guess: don't eat German food. Erica was right.
Also, I got a picture of Jon doing this:
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