I am old enough to remember when KFC was Kentucky Freid Chicken, when Colonel Saunders hawked his “secret recipe” fried chicken. Back then, in 70s Singapore, there was no concept of fast food, partly because as a child growing up, I didn’t know what “fine dining” meant. I don’t recall why I liked Kentucky Fried Chicken, as, looking back, none of the advertising was specifically targetted to kids, although I do remember the appeal of its “finger lickin’ goodness”.
I always imagined old Harland Sanders - the title is honorary - as an enlightened plantation owner who stole his recipe from one of the slaves. Not that this stopped me from liking them chickens: he probably shared his profits, right?
By the time I found myself in the United Kingdom during the latter stages of the Thatcherite regime, it had turned into mere KFC. It was now a place where I entered to escape the cold, during days which were magically compressed by long, expansive nights, and no longer where hormonally fueled boys would rendezvous to scout for girls. I had left home for boarding school when I was 17, and knew little of life’s basics when I was unleashed during weekends. Even worse, London’s streets were littered with those who weren’t invited to the Yuppie Revolution, homeless people who would sneak into the restaurant to snatch at leftovers, the bare bones other diners had seen wise to leave on the trays. The staff, mostly immigrants from South Asia, would chase these hungry scavengers away, much as how you would shoo a bird. Imagine that. What had happened? This, coupled by a newly acquired environmental sensitivity, meant fewer visits to fast food outlets.
Last night, due to a lack of moral backbone, I indulged - is this the write word? - no, I punished myself with a three piece meal. I proudly answered when the drive thru attendant posed the now routine question:
Original or Crispy?
This morning, I struggle to rid a grimy coating from my fingertips, but no matter how hard and often I scrub, they refuse - and now my keyboard is coated with this fine veneer of slime. Would I been better off if I had licked them clean? All through the day, I pay the price for excess (the older you are, the more benign the “excess”), paid in the currency of sheets of toilet rolls.
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