How Not To Eat: The Double Down

Ok, ok, I've bored you kids enough with biting political commentary and non-fiction books. It's time to talk about a universal topic: food.

I have a very strange relationship with food. You'd only need to take one look at me -- for those who can't see me through the internet box, I've whipped up this handy MS-Paint guide:

 -- to know that I, obviously, enjoy my foodstuffs, sometimes in mass quantities. I'm not particularly snobbish when it comes to food (because, honestly, someone who looks like me isn't going to be picky, is she?), but that comes less from my waistline and more from the massive variety of good (and bad) food in my immediate area; I know I don't talk about my hometown very often in these pages, but really, food is where a place like Eugene excels. It's all the small-time diners and food carts of the big city -- my personal favourite being "Off The Waffle," a roving cart that I can mostly find near campus -- but without all the overcrowded awfulness of, say, a New York hotdog stand. 

By this logic, I should be eating like a king every day; surely, there are enough decent stands and shops and cafes to ensure that I never have to be subjected to Taco Bell or Burger King ever again. Unfortunately, logic doesn't work well with social inept fatties, and the shame of going to, say, The Glenwood all by myself and ordering an omelette that I will be forced to eat, alone, in front of judgemental strangers is so great that I usually just say "screw it" and look for the nearest take-out joint. This is my story, this is my message to you: don't do it. This is me. Telling you. How...not to eat!! *dum dum dum*

I don't know that I should be starting with this particular bit of fast food disgustingness, because I can't imagine a better warning than this thing. I first heard of the Double Down sandwich, of all places, on the Telegraph webpage -- a British story exemplifying the excesses of American culture. I did a facepalm, showed the story to all my "friends," laughed a bit, read this bit on 538.com hailing it as one of the most unhealthy sandwiches ever, then thought to myself, "Hey! Maybe I'll try one," and the cycle of self-loathing began anew.

In case you don't know what a Double Down sandwich is (lucky you), it's hailed as a chicken sandwich without the bread, but I like to think of it as a bacon and cheese sandwich with chicken instead of bread. Kentucky Fried Chicken shows us this:

And what I got when I opened my bag today was this:

...which led me to believe that, if you are indeed what you eat, I shouldn't really take offence the next time someone calls me a deep-fried shit sandwich with "Colonel's sauce" (read: "man-spunk") and a side of bacon. With fear, trepidation, and a bit of Pepsi (that you can see in the background), I was ready to face the beast. I could go here with a number of jokes about the awkwardness of the Colonel's sauce and its relative taste when compared with anything half-edible, but that'd just be disgusting, and I feel that I owe it to my literally seven readers to remain a bit above the fray, particularly after showing you that piece of poultry-seasoned dung up there. 

Here's the kicker, though: it wasn't awful, although the more I thought about it, the more it didn't surprise me. If you get past the fact that it looks like -- well, something you wouldn't particularly want to eat -- and the idiocy of the man behind the idea to market this thing as a sandwich, what do you really have? A couple of chicken breasts, a slice or two of cheese, and a shred of bacon -- a poor man's Cordon Bleu, really. If you're not opposed to eating KFC on principle (maybe because, say, all their chickens are genetically bred freaks with 97 wings and no brain stem) and would order anything else on their menu, then you would probably like the Double Down. After all, if the sandwich aspect bothers you that much, there's nothing stopping you from dismantling the damn thing and eating it with a spork, and if the idea of military man-chowder makes you wretch, you can always order it sans sperme. 

Bottom line: no matter how lonely I get, would I eat it again? Probably not. It's one of those culinary experiences that one feels compelled to take part in, fully knowing that it's not "healthy" or "good" or even "appetizing" -- you know, like Crystal Pepsi or those jars of peanut butter that come with the jelly inside as well. At least it's not that Japanese Windows 7 burger with, like, 30 15 7 patties  I'm not sorry I tried it, but now that I've blogged about it, let's pretend, as much as possible, that this whole experience never happened.