The name Chookies makes me fee weird. Not sure why, maybe because it reminds me of a partially-formed chicken, or because it’s trying to be too cute. Either way. The burgers here are pretty damned good, on account of the home-made chilli sauce they smother all over them. A lot of places give you only the barest smidge of their home-made kick-sauce which I think is pretty tight ‘cus that stuff makes a chicken burger man. But Chookies does good. Their chips are those long skinny, shoe-string ones that aren’t that satisfying when you’re craving the big rough-cut bad boys but are perfectly serviceable otherwise. The things that killed me at this joint was the 15 year-old kid working the counter. You know the kind. Skate shoes. Foppish hair. Cockiness smeared all over his face with a painters trowel. He had a couple of little mouthy school mates in hanging out in the store and was making fun of some young girls that had come in. Nothing too unsavory but loud and obvious enough for it to be uncomfortable. Where do these kids get their undue sense of entitlement from, huh? Yeah, I know that makes me sound old. What of it.
