Tucked away, at the end of one of the leafy, graffiti scrawled side streets that form gratin like grids around eastern Kreuzberg - perches Henne. I arrived without a reservation, and was first placed awkwardly on a stool on tall bar table. My elbows, being British, overcompensating polite tucked in at my sides, yet still only a beer mat in distance from that of a newlywed bride on a Chinese honeymoon. Luckily, the waitress soon found me a nook, a tartan clothed table the size of a pizza box, that I could just about fit my cricket legs under.
I had a perfect panorama of the restaurant, my table gave me the discretion a hide affords a twitcher. The timber interior, unchanged since 1907, is equally grand to the customer a century on from its creation. My attention however, was soon drawn to the chickens coming out of the kitchen at methodic intervals, When one was placed in front of me, it became immediately apparent why the restaurant is such an institution.
How the organic chicken is cooked so perfectly remains hotly debated. Some claim it is fried, while others adhere the delightfully crisp - almost like the torched brown sugar of a crème Brule - exterior, to a more complex milk roasting technique (similar to the buttermilk chicken roasting tradition in the deep south according to a Californian work collegue). The chicken arrives with just a slice of bread for company, so, being greedy, I ordered the karttofelsalate - thinly sliced potatoes in an effortless, yet tasty cream sauce.
Cleaning every bit of flesh from the bones of the succulent chicken, I felt a little like Obelix as I did so.
Gleefully I observed a wealthy looking German family- complete with face lifts and family rings - chatting and flattering over mugs I at first assumed, nievely given its lack of alcohol content-compote (A mix of winter fruits, stewed to liquid and served cold in mugs. It's popular in Poland), but later discovered was in fact Landbier.
I also watched in embarrassment as a clearly sozzled Munich tourist in his sixties, approached the Chinese newlyweds and gave a very German two thumbs up twice. Announcing, "I love Shanghai," and "I love Beijing!"- gesticulating both "I's", with a slap of his portly, pink golf t-shirt swathed chest - before stumbling after his wife to a table.
On returning to the bar to settle up, I admired the letter from JFK that sits proudly at eye-level. It offers his sincerest apologies for not being able to dine at the restaurant, as originally planned on his state visit. I felt sympathy for the president, given the meal I had just delighted over. But, I mused and consoled - although the odds are slim, he might have been returning to Broadway to spend an evening with Marilyn. Swings and roundabouts.
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