CONSUMER WATCH COMMENT: It might look good but this KFC concoction will kill you!
KFC's new macho burger proves the fast and the fried still rules
Double trouble? KFC bun-less burger
KFC have unveiled a bun-less burger known as the double. It has double the chicken, double the bacon, double the cheese, and doubles your risk of a coronary.
KFC isn't part of my usual remit as this newspaper's restaurant critic, but a northern suburban outlet of the fast-food ''restaurant'' (to borrow the jargon of its multinational owners) was Wednesday's fluoro-lit destination. The attraction was the release of the Double Down, a burger purpose-built for a brave new world. The Double-D ditches the bun for protein, protein and dairy-derived protein: two deep-fried pieces of chicken standing in for the bread, sandwiching two rashers of bacon, two slices of cheese and a sweet, sweet barbecue sauce.
It was first released in the US a year ago, where it became, depressingly but not unexpectedly, a hit. KFC, the company that retreated to the safety of initials when its marketing whizzes decided people were put off by the word ''fried'', couldn't keep up with demand.
A Facebook page - purportedly established by Australian KFC fans although anyone with a modicum of cynicism might suspect darker forces at work - immediately implored the Kentucky-based company not to deny us their calorific Godzilla. For the greater glory of our waistlines (540 calories wrapped up in 35.7 grams of fat, by the Colonel's own calculations) their prayers have finally been answered.
The Double Down has had plenty of brickbats along with its bouquets. People who ought to know have called it an atrocity, before pulling off the gloves and really saying what they think.The New York Times restaurant critic Sam Sifton concluded: ''It is, in all, a disgusting meal, a must to avoid.'' I would respectfully argue he doesn't go far enough, and should finish with the additional flourish of ''at all costs''.
A guilty pleasure minus the pleasure, the Double Down rewards forensic investigation with the following inventory: sort-of-crunchy chicken breasts, so very white, so very soft, that speak of the terroir of the factory farm; pale yellow cheese that tastes of nothing yet melds itself to everything like tar; streaky bacon, a lip-tingling sodium bomb that could alone be used to justify a desal plant; and that sweet barbecue sauce, as though the folk in the test kitchen decided it needed some sort of balance. My heart did start beating faster, but it wasn't love. Remorse and self-hatred followed the Double Down's consumption like a forgotten side dish.
It's fair to say I'm not the target audience for the svengalis behind the Double Down. They're marketing it as a man-sized ''occasional'' treat, which might just cover them against class actions (incidentally, the same tactic is employed by Sesame Street's new-age Cookie Monster).
The cardboard box converts into a do-not-disturb door-handle sign that warns ''mantime in progress'', which prompts the even more unappetising mental leap from junk food to sexual activity - unspecified, but presumably solo.
Despite my cognitive abilities being compromised by an orgy of saturated fat, it's not too difficult to recognise these fast-food Frankensteins (Hungry Jacks' 12-patty Whopper springs to mind; ditto Maccas' Double Quarter Pounder) for what they really are: marketing gimmicks dressed up as lunch. They're the flip side of the coin to their - let's bring out the inverted commas again - ''healthy'' alternatives that have been proven to induce customers into their stores, only to sell more burgers and fries.
The Double Down would be just another quirky marketing story if the message sent by its just-add-Pepsi success wasn't so sad. For all our ''foodie'' ways (a term I despise, but it conveys the meaning effectively), we're still a nation addicted to the fast and the fried.
If we can't look in the mirror to see a nation of fatty-boom-bah hypocrites heading to an early grave after clogging up hospitals with avoidable ailments, this freakish fried sandwich ought to drive the reality home.
An ugly snapshot of who we really are, as opposed to what we believe ourselves to be, it's food for eating with no sense of ceremony, no sense of civility, and certainly no cutlery. The only way to really optimise the experience is adding a TV.
So don't let me stop you. Go ahead, eat it if you will. The Double Down is a big bunless whoop, a finger at the adage that you are what you eat. It's a dare wrapped in branded paper, an overt show of machismo. To paraphrase Paul Hogan: ''That's not a clogged artery. This is a clogged artery.'' But don't go getting too proud of yourself.
Despite its excess it's still pipped at the post, calorie-wise, by the likes of the Big Mac, although you could argue the latter's lettuce and pickle gives it the edge on the healthy-eating pyramid.
The publicity the Double Down has received here has, unsurprisingly, mimicked the US, with nutritionists and concerned private citizens who like to ingest their food in less forceful quantities making the usual noises about government regulation, an idea almost as quaint as it is impossible.
Well might the forces of authority bring down a prohibition on one of the more disturbing ends of a multibillion-dollar industry, but going by a depressing snapshot at a suburban greasy spoon this week, no one can save us from ourselves.
