Finger-lickin’ confessions of a middle-class KFC addict
My name is Tom, and I’m a fried chicken addict. All fried chicken, in general, but KFC in particular. It wouldn’t quite make my last supper – I like to think I’d go a little more upmarket – but it’s my ultimate comfort food.
The appeal, for the uninitiated, is simple: it’s a visceral, almost sensual experience. Knives and forks are never used; you tear off bits of moist, steaming flesh wrapped in crisp, salty batter, Neanderthal-style. Inhibitions are left behind at the chicken shop – the wet wipes (essential) are not.
Many may wrinkle their noses, but mine is clearly not a niche view.
Last weekend, KFC temporarily closed more than half of its 900 branches across the United Kingdom as delivery problems with a new supplier led to a shortage. As of Thursday, my local store was still running a limited menu.
Just hours after the announcement, #KFCCrisis was trending on Twitter. ‘‘Disaster. Took the grandkids out to dinner at KFC only to see that it’s shut down. Can’t show weakness in front of them,’’ wrote one user.
Another asked Prime Minister Theresa May: ‘‘What do you guys intend to do about the KFC chicken crisis?’’ More seriously, Tower Hamlets police had to issue a plea for people to stop wasting their time reporting the poultry drought.
My love for Kentucky’s finest export (with an honourable mention to bourbon and Muhammad Ali) most likely stems from childhood prohibition. Growing up in a typical north London, middle-class household, organic brown rice and muesli were on the menu. Fast food, categorically, was not. While friends’ parents treated them, to my envy, to Bargain Buckets, a pizza was about as far as mine would stretch.
With growing age came greater culinary independence, and Colonel Sanders beckoned. For an unrebellious teenager, eating there was about as non-conformist as it got. Nando’s is nice, but KFC feels naughty.
As I traversed the country following Arsenal, KFC’s heavy service station presence offered ample opportunity to indulge. A heartbreaking defeat? Nothing a Bargain Bucket won’t fix. Euphoric victory? A Zinger makes for a perfect celebratory meal.
On nights out, the chicken shop seemed to offer a magic antidote to inebriation. And it was perfect for putting partners to the test: up for a greasy dinner at 3am, not put off by a shirt covered in crumbs and BBQ sauce? Good enough for me.
Having opened its first UK branch in Preston in 1965, KFC now has around 900 across the country. We know it isn’t healthy – a Bargain Bucket comes in at 3660 calories. There are animal welfare issues, too, with the average bird living just 35 days before being sent to be battered. But in the clean-eating era, the urge to transgress can be overwhelming.
Now 26, I’m attempting to keep my addiction under control. If it were good for you, I’d eat there often. Instead, I’ve learned how to make it at home, with excellent results.
But if this shortage hasn’t been good for KFC’s takings, it’s done wonders for the company’s PR, and whetted my appetite for the real thing. On my next night out, if the gleaming lights suggest that the Colonel has sorted his deliveries, the temptation may just be too great.
– Telegraph Group