This is not a food column. In fact, it could be better interpreted as a piece of culinary porn that has been undeservingly muddled beneath other hard news, but nonetheless is finally getting its warranted shout out. It has been almost a year since the Chicago opening of our city’s first Chick-fil-A, but in recent intercampus trips it has become my first and only choice of downtown cuisine.

Between State and Wabash Avenue lies an inviting green revolving door, leading to a surprisingly pleasant and clean interior with lots of seating but rarely many available tables. There’s no wonder it remains a crowded atmosphere; something about it feels welcoming for a fast food joint, or perhaps just more hygienic. The aromas send you into a haze of waffle fries and chicken sandwiches and before you know it, you’ve ordered the 12-piece chicken nugget meal, a cookies and cream milkshake and three extra packets of Chick-fil-A dipping sauce (an unrivaled concoction of mustard and barbeque).

I suppose one of the reasons I have fallen in love with a chicken restaurant is its unusually effective customer service. As I pull out my wallet to pay, one of the young and charming employees always asks for my name with a heart-melting “I’m so excited to serve you” grin. Okay, so it is solely to label the order, but I feel like Chick-fil-A V.I.P. Then, with a flirtatious swipe of my (parent’s) credit card, my meal is on the way. While I’m standing and drooling on the side, I can’t help but battle with the dilemma of whether or not to order something more hydrating to supplement the milkshake, for instance the Chick-fil-A lemonade that is made from scratch every day and tastes so good it’s like an orgasm of citrus in your mouth.

I can feel the judgment coming after such a scandalous narration of a casual downtown lunch. Regardless, I am shame-free and proud to admit my absolute disinterest in the expected post-meal calorie counting, the comatose state I will undeniably slip into after consumption and the fact that I will probably return again three hours later for a Chick-fil-A encore. For under ten dollars and in less than seven minutes of waiting in line, I have rewarded myself after what was most likely a rough day of strolling along Michigan Avenue (really, why else am I ever downtown?).

There is a small downside of Chi-town’s hottest new chick spot: it isn’t open on Sundays. Sunday, the day that we lie around procrastinating on a Micro problem set by watching “The Voice” and fantasizing about our meal cravings for the day, the one restaurant that can provide the ultimate satisfaction is closed. Despite its lack of sufficient weekend hours, this chicken shack, fast food’s finest establishment, holds the key to my heart (and stomach). Chick-fil-A-mazing.

–Jacqueline Andriakos