The KFC Double Down has been the recipient of many a headline in recent weeks.
It has been lauded as the greatest thing to happen to chicken since buffalo sauce and it’s been derided as the worst thing to happen to food since – um – everything on the This Is Why You’re Fat website.
Friend of the blog, “The Miller Times” took on the bunless terror a while back and today it’s my turn.
Being that I’m – well – a fatty, I had no choice but to attack this seemingly decedent treat guns-a-blazin’…and I did just that a mere two weeks ago (obviously, I’m a little slow at keeping up on my blogging lately).
It was laundry day.
Anyone who has stopped by here a time or two is well-aware that I f’n hate laundry day with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Not because doing laundry is any sort of agonizing process or anything, but rather because I have to travel to do laundry.
This infuriates me. If laundry were right near my place, I wouldn’t care in the slightest and I’d probably have clean clothes far more frequently.
Anyway, I seem to have gotten off track here, where was I?!
Ah yes…it was laundry day.
Every laundry day, I treat myself to a stop the vaunted KFC/Taco Bell hybrid near the Lost Sock Laundromat.
This generally works out pretty well because in the time it takes me to hike it up the block, order my food, wait and wait and wait for my food and eventually eat me food and get back to the laundromat, the wash cycle is usually finished.
This seemed like the prime opportunity to sample the Double Down. So I sauntered to the counter, full of the swagger that only a man who eschews buns in favor of more dead animal flesh can muster and placed my order.
The gal behind the counter looked as though every asshole male between the age of 10 and 30 who had come in with the same douchey-swagger and order for the better part of two weeks, but she hooked me up with the Double Down nonetheless.
As anticipated – service is a tad, um, sluggish here – the food took about ten minutes, but once it arrived I was on it like a pack of ravenous hyenas on a three legged elk. I tore the “sandwich” from the bag and shoved it in my face.
I then took a minute, or two, or three…as I tried chewing and swallowing the gigantic mass of chicken breast in my mouth.
“Gee…that just tastes like a fried chicken breast,” I thought to myself as I finally – with the aid of an entire glass of watered down Mt. Dew – finished off the first bite.
I took another and another and every time it was the same situation. All I could taste was chicken breast. After my third bite I finally peeled apart the two layers to see what the inner-workings really had going for ‘em and it wasn’t much.
There were two virtually non-existent slices of cheese, some bacon and whatever the hell the Colonel’s secret sauce is. Personally, I think if he’s a legit Colonel, then we can go ahead and invoke the don’t ask, don’t tell policy in regard to the sauce.
Sauce of sketchy origin notwithstanding, it was still a very un-awesome experience.
I eventually choked the whole thing down, feeling disappointed in both KFC and the choices I was making with my life and I slowly meandered back to my laundry.
All-in-all, it was a less-than-inspiring dining option and I can’t say that I’d recommend it to anyone.
For all the hype and hoopla surrounding the Double Down, I was anticipating some sort of dining experience that would change my life forever.
Instead, I got two big pieces of chicken and some stuff in the middle that I couldn’t even taste.