Years ago, living in the mountains of north Idaho around 1980, my parents decided to come for a visit. Some friends got together and planned a BBQ for them and one of the ladies donated some chickens to the cause. Over age, free range chickens at the end of their useful (laying) life, as it turned out.
The big day arrived, nice and sunny and warm and we were all gathered around, drinking beer, talking, watching my buddy play with the birds on the grill and all was well. Then, buddy decided he needed a potty break, so my dad stepped up.
Dad was justifiably proud of his prowess as a BBQ-er and started re-arranging the pieces on the grill....then said, "uh oh, we may have a problem." He couldn't get the big fork into them to turn them. He finally managed it by really stabbing them, but he had everyone's attention.
Time to eat came around and we dug in....and bounced. Those chickens were as tough as tire rubber. You could work strips of meat off them with your teeth, but they were tasteless and tough. No such thing as biting a chunk off. Even the dogs refused them. Fun to look back on, but Hans was sure embarrassed at the time. Chicken supplier was his mother-in-law....and everyone was eager to show my big-city folks some small town, back country hospitality. Oh well.