REVIEWS: Double Down Sandwich from KFC

It’s common knowledge that KFC is without a doubt the worst fast food chain. Everyone knows this, even people who like KFC. I like KFC, especially when it’s paired with a Taco Bell. But it’s true, every way you slice it. Across the board, for a variety of ethical, environmental and health reasons, from vegans to those of us who consider lettuce on a McChicken a serving of vegetables, KFC is still the WORST.

So when I saw a window banner advertising the restaurant’s new Double Down sandwich, I was at once disgusted, curious, and not at all surprised. KFC has reached a dizzying, impressive new low. I knew they were onto something when last month, the restaurant unveiled their handheld boneless filet, which was a giant chicken strip served in a cardboard sleeve. The Double Down takes this idea light-years in the wrong direction. It consists of two pieces of bacon and two slices of Monterrey jack cheese artfully placed between TWO of these handheld fried chicken breasts. I couldn’t wait to try one.

The banner sported a slogan: “This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been eating a BLT and thought, “You know, this would be a lot better without all these vegetables, and if this boring bread was greasy fried chicken.” In their own Neanderthal-with-a-deep-fryer kind of way, the folks at KFC have reinvented the wheel. And they put fucking bacon on it.

I awoke this morning at 11am. Having overslept after a tiring day rearranging office bookshelves, I was in the perfect mood for my first taste of the Double Down. The bacon makes it a healthy breakfast, and it was close enough to noon to have a hankering for fried chicken.

I walked into the KFC on North Beacon St. in Allston, and there was a long line. The guy behind the register appeared overwhelmed. I should explain that I have never had a good experience in this particular neighborhood KFC location, and that—as much as anyone could be happy doing so—the staff here are particularly pissy about serving you, as if they intensely judge you for eating this shit. Hey man, just gimme my artery-clogging synthetic chicken so I can go home and feel bad about myself by myself.

But today was different. Robert, the chinstrapped fellow behind the register, was keeping busy as best he could as the line increased. You know you’re in the right place if you order your sandwich and the guy at the register shouts to the back, “Hey Marie, make that twelve Double Downs.”

Within minutes I had my “sandwich.” It was a floppy, unmanageable mess. The warm chicken effectively melted the cheese slices, and each bite was saltier and gooier than the last. About midway through, I felt it. The Double Down was turning my insides into Play-Doh. I was determined to eat my way through the pain, and I almost made it. There were two bites left to go when I graciously conceded to its obvious power.

I wouldn’t say I “enjoyed” the Double Down, but I was in awe of it from the first bite. In these situations, as with drugs or gambling or religion, it is best to admit that you are powerless. It is impossible to know or define your will at all. I wanted to eat a Double Down and I almost did it. That should tell you a lot right there. Would I eat the Double Down again? Yes. If I am ever on death row, my last meal request will be a Double Down breadless chicken-bacon sandwich. As I’m strapped into the chair, silently greeting my mortality, the prison guards will whisper to each other, “Did you see him put that thing away?” and stand in awe at my fearlessness.