Have you doubled down?
by Kimberly Ang
Repost from whimsicalwordplays.tumblr.com:
In anticipation of the opening of Iron Man 3 (of which ironically, I have still to watch Iron Man 1 & 2. Which I am fully intending to before the realease of 3, of course), the boy and I dropped by KFC today to try their ode to Iron Man 3; the double down max. As I didn’t manage to try their very first double down burger, released in anticipation of The Avengers last year, I really was quite excited. After all, it was a chicken burger; hashbrown and bacon and mayo wedge in between two beautifully, crispy fried chicken fillets. Or so they looked like in the hugeass posters plastered around the MRT. Naturally, being easily visually stimulated, I couldn’t wait to try it. And like as if one burger wasn’t enough to clog all the arteries in my body, I upsized my side to cheese fries. Altogether, my meal cost a whopping 9SGD. I wonder how I ever got the idea that fast food should relatively be more affordable than normal food. Perhaps it was because it was so mass produced, it seemed like very little cooking is involved. On the other hand, it could be perhaps it didn’t make sense to pay exorbitant amounts of money on food that is slowly killing us with every nibble.
The double down max is like the badass playboy that you spot from the corner of your eye. Looking so flawless and enticing, it draws you in with their delicious looks. You can’t help but want a taste of it, just to know what it’s like, so say that you’ve had a glimpse of heaven, even if for a minute or two. Then you meet, and initially everything fits perfectly, the frivolous combination of you and your boy, you and the burger. It’s flavour is a explosion of myriad flavours you’ve never experienced before.
Every once in a while, you’ll find that there is something as “too much of a good thing”, and it all begins to fall apart. I started to pick apart the burger like one would pick at the parts of the crumbling relationship with your playboy, which in reality just shows that nothing in the relationship seems to compliment anymore. I tried my best to eat the parts of the burger separately, like a chicken dish with sides, before I finally gave up, because my dinner was sitting so uncomfortably in my stomach. I failed to salvage this relationship, and so I had to let it go, telling myself that I should have known from the start that my inkling told me it wouldn’t have worked out well anyway.
Not only did I left one out of the two pieces of chicken and a fifth of the hashbrown untouched, my cheese fries were gross too. I could tell they had been in the warmer thingy for a while, because when I bit into my first fry I could tell that it had gone soggy and starchy. The cheese could barely cover the awfulness of the fry. The only redemption of tonight’s meal was that the boy’s cheese fries were fresh from the kitchen (more evidence that mine were stale, I got the last one in the waiting queue) so I actually got hot fries with hot cheese and mayo. And they really are pretty yumz. Also, my Mug rootbeer because I don’t think you can screw up dispensed drinks, except once I think the dispenser ran out of the concoction makes the drinks carbonated.
9SGD could have gotten me a decent meal at Astons, instead I got a failed relationship with my burger and cheese fries. Very, very upsetting. Also, I have probably used up my quota for fast food for the rest of the year. The boy says a month, but I could almost feel my arteries clogging with every single bite of my lopsided, dissected burger. I think it’s safer to keep the fast food ban to about a year. Or maybe 6 months.