My friend Jonny and I, on break from a two-show day, crossed the street to the nearby food court and ambled up to the KFC. I breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of a line. Had there been a wait of longer than five minutes, I might’ve chickened out. (Get it? Chickened out?)
I quickly spotted that the Double Down combo had a number and, too ashamed to actually say the words “Can I have a Double Down, please?,” I ordered a Number 3. The cashier swiped my card and that was it. My “sandwich” was on the way.
We waited a few minutes for our orders to “cook” – for all I know there was not a food service engineer (or whatever bullshit PC job title they have) back there but a necromancer, chanting in Sanskrit to summon this monstrosity from the vasty deep. Unceremoniously, they handed us brown bags with the Colonel’s face on them. I wondered if he knew what people were doing in his name.
We ate our fries first. It felt right, consuming something we knew we’d enjoy before embarking on a one-way street to a black hole of taste. Were we procrastinating? Avoiding the inevitable? Of course.
My first bite was all chicken. So far, so good. Then came the Monterey Jack and something called the Colonel’s Sauce. I wasn’t prepared for the Jack’s spiciness. And it’s not like it was burning my mouth jalapeno-style. I just hadn’t prepped my taste buds ahead of time. They were…confused. I, too, was confused because it felt like the sandwich was hiding the bacon from me. While my eye told me there were at least two strips in there, I only truly tasted it in two bites or so.
Halfway through our meal Jonny says, “I feel like everyone’s judging me.” While the paranoia may have been unwarranted, I could certainly sympathize. Here we were, eating a sandwich designed to kill us, of course anyone who knew what we were up to would scoff at us and pass judgment. I’d do the same.
Afterwards, my stomach felt fine. No mysterious gurgles or fonts of gastrointestinal acid. I had no regrets*, but also no plans to eat a second one. Double Down, consider yourself defeated.
* – I wholly recommend having a wingman for your Double Down experience. Even if they don’t partake, you need a witness to A) confirm that what you’re eating is in fact real, B) listen to your taste play-by-play, and C) call 911 on the off-chance a piece of bacon hidden in that Trojan horse of chicken lodges itself in one of your arteries.