KFC

My partner, Patrick, is addicted to KFC, an addiction he tries to conceal by typically referring to our outings at the red colonel as ‘visiting the three letters.’ Like most addictions, more is never enough and nothing ever compares to the holy grail of KFC, at Haymarket, George Street, Sydney.
I myself am ambivalent about the bird, remembering from years gone by those urban myths that KFC was in fact rabbit. Certainly, the cooking method leaves a lot to be desired. Are those things fried or pressure cooked? Me thinks, both. Still, at the end of a tiring day, walking from one end of Madrid to another, my hunger needed feeding.
We got the 9 piece bucket, with fries, salad, and a whopping 2 litre bottle of Pepsi. We wanted Max but the server just laughed. Too right, too. As if anyone chowing down on KFC can be concerned about kilojoule counts? I guess that’s why they throw in the cod ordinary salad?
The chicken was moist and more tasty than back home in Sydney but Patrick complained that the crumb was too thin. I saw evidence of that unique KFC cut, whereby a part of the carcass normally discarded somehow makes its way to the table. This trick works less well when, as here, there is little crumb covering.
The fries, although not as mean as those you get in KFC in Paris, were not the bumper serving you get in Sydney. And the aircon in this joint was set to super ice cold, which made lingering uncomfortable and the urge to rush back out to the warm Madrid evening, a necessity…

Pues un Kentacky de toda la vida que ahora se llama KFC para parecer mas modernos. pollo frito sin mas.