Why do I do this to myself?

Saturday evening started at Hamilton’s, hanging out with a group of good friends and enjoying some of the finest beer this city has to offer. Then, somebody mentioned the Double Down. From there it burrowed into our brains like a bad seed taking root, and within a few short hours all was reduced to this:  

What exactly IS the Double Down? It’s KFC’s newest creation, marketed for that certain brand of Neanderthal that needs more meat than your average chicken sandwich can provide. The Double Down is bacon, swiss and pepper jack cheese, and a mysterious “Colonel’s Sauce” crammed between two slabs of meat. (Original crispy or grilled, pick your poison.) “So meaty, there’s no room for a bun,” says the advertisement. Nonsensical insanity, says I. So we ordered two.

Behold! 250 grams—roughly half a pound—of pure meat, cheese, mayonnaise, and trace amounts of chemicals and grease-soaked cardboard carton. (Grave apologies to H. for defiling your kitchen table and food scale with this nonsense.) 

First, the good news. I’m not going to lie to you. It’s delicious. I mean, let’s not kid ourselves—it’s basically a chicken cordon bleu, a classic staple of European cooking. The cheese is melty, the Colonel’s Sauce is creamy and a little bit spicy, and there’s nothing I can tell you about bacon that you don’t already know. It’s everything you ever dreamed a ball of deep-fried chicken and molten fat could be.

So, what’s the bad news? 

Look at it. Really, LOOK AT IT. If you feel your skin crawling, don’t worry—that’s just the cystic acne outbreak that comes with so much as laying eyes on this grease pit. 

Eating this will not make you feel good. No, that’s an understatement. On an emotional level, eating it leaves you depressed and confused, drowning it in gravy and cramming it into your mouth while you text your best friend a stream of phrases like “expensive brick of shame” and “terrible and sobering” and “worst thing ever oh god.” On a physical level, eating it feels like the tastiest cinderblock you ever swallowed whole. It will linger for days. I only ate half of mine on Saturday, and it was Tuesday and a dinner of six Triscuits with goat cheese before I experienced normal hunger again. It’s like a nervous breakdown wrapped in wax paper. 

Today I finished the beast. I should have thrown it away, but what a waste! (Seriously—this shit cost five dollars. I’m not made of money.) If the sight of the Double Down seemed depressing before, imagine it bubbling away in a toaster oven four days later. I was going to post a picture, but it might trigger thoughts of suicide.  

You know what, though? It was still delicious. Sure, it had lost a little of its kick and I had lost a little more of my dignity, but fighting through the shame and regret and certain oncoming stomachache was a twinge of secret unbridled joy.

Still. Let’s never speak of (or order) this again.