After my harrowing experience with the Double Down, I needed some time to collect myself, ponder the meaning of such reckless grease, and find the motivation to continue with my investigation. I recently returned to the same KFC/Taco Bell to experience another terrifying day of life outside the bun. The next subject: Taco Bell’s XXL Chalupa.

Some things are just too big for their own good. I like to think of these things as, much like the Roman Empire, too big not to fail. Two such things are the XXL Chalupa and the New York Yankees. Perhaps that’s why Yankees manager Joe Girardi and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera star in a commercial for the XXL Chalupa. The commercial centers around the difficulty people have with finishing the XXL. Well I can tell you first hand that the difficulty comes not in finishing the chalupa, but in reconciling yourself with what you eventually realize you just ate.

When you open the box, the XXL appears by no means insurmountable. It is roughly the size of two regular chalupas. And while it takes a little longer to eat, you don’t feel full at the end (you don’t feel satisfied either, but that’s true of many things at Taco Bell). Only about ten minutes after you finish do you realize your folly. Like a compressed file, it unzips and extracts itself upon entering your stomach. You begin to wonder how much ground beef and fried-something-or-other you actually just consumed.

Because of this unique trait, the XXL is better suited, in my opinion, for another purpose. Instead of nourishment, it should be used as a weapon. First we confuse our enemies by giving them what looks to be a free meal. After they consume said meal, they become incapacitated by nausea, stomach aches, and indigestion. We could end wars without firing a single shot. We could apprehend our enemies, as they would be throwing themselves at our feet, begging for some sort of medical attention. Yes, friends, the XXL is the Trojan Horse of chalupas, and it should be wielded as such.

But with great power comes great responsibility– which is why I am disappointed that Taco Bell has recklessly introduced the XXL to the general public when it truly belongs in C-17s en route to combat zones. In the wrong hands, this toxic agent presents a danger to society and a threat to our way of life. So please join me in asking Taco Bell to remove this powerful weapon from their menu, so that it may serve our country without being served to our country.

There comes a time in every reporter’s life when he or she becomes aware of a higher purpose, hears an undeniable calling, and is ready to take the next step. Risking life and limb simply becomes part of the job, as they attempt to tell a story in all its truth. For some, this means reporting from a battlefield as an embedded journalist. For others it means standing on the beach with nothing but a camera and microphone as a category five hurricane barrels down on them. For this correspondent, the revelation came when I stared down the most menacing foe I have ever encountered: the Kentucky Fried Chicken Double Down sandwich. Something told me I had to write about it. But first, I had to–against my better judgment–eat it.

The Double Down is packaged in the same Colonel Sanders-adorned,  innocent-looking box into which KFC might put, say, their moderately healthy grilled chicken sandwich with extra tomato, hold the mayo, please. But the box is meant to draw you in and deceive you, for when you open it, you are greeted by the villain in disguise, the Double Down himself.

The sandwich consists of two fried chicken breast fillets, bacon, American cheese, and a tangy sauce whose purpose, I would venture to say, is to distract you from the fact that you are holding a breadless chicken sandwich in your hands.

As any seasoned journalist would do, I first stared at the sandwich for a while. Then I took pictures of it. Then I asked it a warm up question. Then I asked it a trick question. After eliciting no response from the sandwich, I determined that it was at least somewhat safe to consume. And the adventure began.

There’s something oddly unnerving about holding fried chicken fillets in your hands. And there shouldn’t be. Fried chicken is often considered finger food. But that’s when there are bones to eat around and little morsels of unknown goodness to uncover, or when the chicken is in the form of fingers or nuggets. When you’re holding two slabs of meat glued together with cheese, bacon, and sauce, an internal warning bell of etiquette violation starts ringing immediately. The experience is permeated by the constant thought, “Did I lose the bun?” Surely this is not what Taco Bell meant by “Think outside the bun,” even though I did purchase this sandwich-like thing from a KFC/Taco Bell.

The bottom line for the Double Down is that the novelty wears off after ten seconds. You have grease all over your hands and all you really want is a bun. Or a fork. Or a trash can.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been through the Munich train station. But I know exactly how many times I’ve used the restroom in the Munich train station, because each time, I had to cough over 80 euro cents. But in a land of potato salad, sauerkraut, and endless beer, 80 euro cents is well worth the peace of mind of knowing that relief is just an escalator ride away.

At chicken and rice, we frequently pay homage to the food and drink we consume, but rarely do we talk about the latter half of the digestive process. At the Munich Hauptbahnhof’s Rail & Fresh Water Closet, that’s all they can talk about. Or so I assume– my German is admittedly not so great.

The experience begins when you walk to a central desk and announce your intent to relieve yourself to a receptionist who smiles, holds out her hand, and says “achtzig Cent, bitte.” If you do not have 80 cents already counted out, you may have to awkwardly fumble through your pockets for a moment. Don’t be afraid to give her a full euro. Sometimes she’ll give you 20 cents back. Sometimes, she’ll just keep the euro. If this happens, convince yourself that you wanted to tip her 20 cents anyway, as this is easier than starting an argument in a language you only half understand while your bladder and/or colon is telling you to move along.

After paying for your toilet time, you choose your side. If you are male, turn right. If you are female, turn left. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of going to the correct side. Not that it matters that much to the other restroom goers. The whole facility is, in fact, open and visible to everyone. But you’ll feel like an idiot if you find yourself surrounded by members of the opposite sex when you could have avoided the mess by simply going through the other turnstile.

Around this time, you begin to notice the immaculate ambiance surrounding you. The walls are white and light blue, and they glow from some magical floodlight whose source remains invisible. The people washing their hands at the randomly placed sinks are nodding their heads in time with the treble-heavy Euro techno-pop that plays over the sound system. You begin to feel like you are in the cleanest place on Earth, a refuge that is constantly sterilized with auto-tuned German phrases and synth hits. And something smells like springtime. Truly, this must be what heaven is like.

You then enter your own private one square meter room. The music intensifies. The light brightens. The rest is history.

If you are planning on traveling to Munich in the near future, you must visit the Frauenkirche, the Deutsches Museum, and the train station restroom. The Rail & Fresh Water Closet has a funny way of glorifying the icky and mundane to such a point that, yes, it does smell like roses.

10. Upon first meeting the waiter, announce that the amount of money you intend to pay in gratuity will be directly proportional to the number of times he calls you “Lord Vader.”

9. When your food arrives, sneeze in it. Then insist that you deserve a new meal.

8. Ask the waiter whether he recommends the chicken or the beef. Order whichever option he does not suggest.

7. Ask the waiter whether he recommends the chicken or the beef. Order a salad.

6. Order soup. When it arrives, put a zipper slide in it and exclaim loudly, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!” Laugh hysterically for at least two minutes.

5. Bring an mp3 player with an external speaker. Every time the waiter approaches your table, play the theme from St. Elmo’s Fire. If he asks what you’re doing, tell him it’s his theme song.

4. Take only one bite of your meal and tell him you’re finished. Ask to see a dessert menu.

3. Immediately accuse your waiter of spitting in your food (even if you have not done any of the other things on this list), and storm out of the restaurant.

2. Order a steak rare. Send it back, explaining that you would rather it medium rare. Send it back a second time, asking for it to be well done. Upon receiving the well done steak, say disappointedly, “I really would rather it rare.”

1. Explain that your name is Beef and that you write for a critically acclaimed food blog. Feign the expectation that, in light of this information, you won’t have to pay.

Apologies for the long absence, but do not fret, it has not been in vain. I present to you the product of every painstaking hour of available time since my last post.

With warmest regards,

rice

The news struck quickly and violently. I had invested heavily in a stuffed flounder dinner, and was in the process of making my way into the filling when the waiter came back and asked how I was enjoying my meal.

“It’s splendid,” I replied. Pointing the fork at the breaded exterior, I asked, post-swallow, what the chef had stuffed in the flounder.

“Crab meat, of course,” replied the waiter, smiling and leaning over to refill my water glass with water from a beautiful crystal pitcher.

“Mmm, but there’s something distinct about it,” I noted with an inquisitive glance. “What type of crab is it? Blue crab? Mangrove? King? The meat is excellent, and I must know what brave crab gave his all so that I might enjoy his succulent innards.”

With an uneasy smile, the waiter assured me that he would go to the kitchen and find out for me. I thanked him and continued to enjoy my food. It was around this time that I noticed a young brunette woman a few tables over who appeared to have taken a disproportionate interest in what I was doing. I looked over, smiled and gave a polite nod. She quickly opened a newspaper and began to read it. The waiter returned, looking pink and jittery. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what type of crab it is,” he said.

“Then I would like to speak to the chef,” I said, slightly perturbed and a little more inquisitive.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” quivered the waiter.

“And why is that?” I asked. The restaurant grew quiet. The woman a few tables over put down her news paper and watched the waiter intently.

“Because,” the waiter began.

“Because he doesn’t exist,” said a voice behind me. It was the hostess. “This operation is run with precooked food.”

“And my stuffing?!” I demanded.

“Imitation.”

With that, the woman with the newspaper stood up, along with two men from the bar who were dressed in suits, and walked over to the hostess.

“I’m Agent Mahi of the Seafood Exactitude Commission,” the woman said to the hostess.

The hostess looked back, shrugged, and replied, “There is no innocent explanation.”

“Take her away, boys,” said Agent Mahi, and the two burly men from the bar cuffed the hostess and led her out of the restaurant. Then Agent Mahi looked back at me. “Well done,” she said. “You have just assisted in the capture of an elusive, brilliant scam artist. The SEC had been tracking her for quite some time.”

Another man in a suit, whom I had not previously seen, came walking out of the kitchen and over to Agent Mahi. “Just as we suspected, ma’am. Nothing but microwaves. No people, no pots or pans. Nothing real at all. It was all fake. All an illusion.”

Agent Mahi looked only half stuneed. “How did she do it?” she asked. “How did she keep them all going, all on her own?”

“I suppose she had help from the waiter,” replied the agent who had come from the kitchen.

“I guess you’re right. But still, that’s incredible.” Agent Mahi turned back toward me. “The SEC thanks you for your help with this, even if you had no idea what was going on.” She looked back at the other agent. “Well, I suppose we’ll have tons of paperwork to do when we get back. Might as well get started.”

“What about my money?” I asked. “What about my crab meat?”

“I’m sorry,” Agent Mahi replied. “It’s gone. There never was any crab meat. Just some pasted Alaskan Pollock made to resemble the real thing. It was all a hoax. But you can take comfort knowing that this criminal will never rip off another unsuspecting seafood lover again.”

As she turned for the door, I called out in a flashy show of 1940s over-the-top melodrama, “Agent Mahi, don’t I even get a first name?”

“You already know it,” she responded coolly. Then she left the restaurant.

I looked around, my life in shambles, my faith in my favorite seafood establishment gone, my faith in seafood in general  shaken. The waiter had been taken to the car with the hostess, but not before he dropped the crystal pitcher on the ground. Shattered glass lay strewn about the floor, as did the false dreams they had built themselves, the hostess and the waiter. All a hoax. All a scam. As I said, the news struck quickly and violently.

For many, the statistics are too much to bear.  A local musician responded,  “I am disgusted.  The noble bird is the source of amazing poetry, and the basis for many of my songs.  Birds are dying so some rich businessmen can have a view.  Is it worth the view to kill a bird?  Does no one care?” He then covered one of his eyes so he only see half the pain caused by the skyscrapers.  A tear could be seen rolling out his other, disenfranchised eye.

The collisions hurt the flightless birds in much the same way.  An emu, weighed down by grief, commented, “If I had arms I’d cut myself.” That was the only phrase he knew.

And the buildings?  The buildings are indifferent.  Calls to the EWI building, representative to the IUCN World Conservation Congress, were not returned.

Birds are dying, skyscrapers are silent, musicians are paralyzed, and no one is doing anything about the problem.

Except little Charlie Sobcov.  World traveler, eighth grader, Canadian…Charlie is many things.  Most of all, though, Charlie is a lover of birds.  He fell in love during a trip to Costa Rica years ago, and was appalled when he found out the statistics.  But Charlie didn’t fall into an emotional stupor.  Charlie acted.

During an exhaustive examination of the bird’s sensory systems, he discovered that birds and humans see different spectra of light.  Charlie painted several windows with paint that is visible to birds but not humans.  “Immediately the birds stopped flying into those windows,” he said.  He plans to quickly expand his trials.

We here at chicken and rice salute Charlie for being part of the solution.  Pointless death is not delicious.  His hard work has given many hope.  Hope that pointless death stops.  Hope that musician could be enfranchised again.  Hope that emu need not despond.  Hope those skyscrapers need not kill.  But, most of all, hope that birds need not die.

We cannot wait to see what little Charlie will think up next.  He has a lot in common with another lover of birds, a man who visited the Galapagos and fell in love with the islands’ finches.  That man was Charles Darwin.

Sincerely,
A Teriyaki Virgin

Dear TV,
You pose a legitimate question–one that I have asked myself on many an occasion. How can we hold true to our isolationist American culture while still enjoying everything our jingoistic outbursts provide? Can we build an 8 foot concrete wall on the Mexican border, but install a small take-out window for tacos? Would cheap Chinese food still be as delicious if it were made by a non-illegal alien?

To reconcile the great teriyaki disparity we turn to a man from the orient, General Sun-tzu, who in the 5th century B.C., said that for one to succeed, one must keep his friends close and his enemies closer. With this in mind, the answer is clear. In order to recognize the dangers that these exotic marinades pose to impressionable males, we must study them. To fully combat the yellow fever which they induce, we must consume them, and in doing so, we neutralize a critical weapon in the oriental arsenal. Wars of the future will be fought not on the battlefield but in the kitchen. The masses think not with their minds but with their stomachs. The Romans understood this. So did Ben and Jerry. Now, so shall we. And if we perfect the delicacies of East-Asian flavorings, we will become the masters of all cuisines, and the world shall tremble at the taste of our delicious.

In short, I highly recommend marinading chicken with teriyaki sauce and then stir frying with red peppers and bean sprouts. I hope this answers your questions. Feel free to send more questions to — delicious [at] chickenandrice [dot] org— and a member of the chicken and rice team will be happy to respond.

Sincerely,
Rice

First I have sad news, friends. Our beloved gray squirrels are under attack simply because of the color of their fur. People in the United Kingdom are apparently partial to their red squirrels who, although they are terribly cute, are not above all other squirrels simply because of color. That, as we know, is racism.

Our story is a complex one. As a nation, we forged our destiny from defiance of the tyranny of the old world. We sought freedom and equality. However, our new government retained the shames of human bondage long after the old world stepped out of the very same shackles. The old world learned first that racism is wrong. Yet they now return to their old preconceptions based on color. Gray squirrels are being killed to save the red squirrels, as there is not enough space on the tiny island of Britain for both species. But not just killed– the gray squirrels are being eaten.

Now we return to the deliciousness of squirrel meat. It has been described as “nutty,” “greasy,” and “a stronger version of rabbit.” I would one day like to try squirrel meat, so that I may personally testify to its greatness. But I have to wonder: could I enjoy the meat of a squirrel knowing that its death was the product of rampant racism? Could I be happy because of evil? I declare that the racism driving the addition of squirrel to many British menus is enough to ruin the experience, and it taints and insults the taste of squirrel.

So I am asking all of you to join me in sending a message to the squirrel gamers. Together, we must boycott squirrel meat until all squirrels are hunted equally. For some of you, this may mean giving up your favorite dish, or saying “no” at the dinner table every night. For many others, this boycott will require no change in your daily lifestyle whatsoever. But just remember that we cannot progress as a society while these prejudices exist. One day, friends, I will taste the meat of gray squirrel– at the same time as I taste the meat of red squirrel.

When asked to clarify, Henderson explained that the human body and a Hummer H2 consume, gallon for gallon, approximately the same amount of water and gasoline, respectively, over the same distance. Since gasoline is now cheaper than bottled water, the H2 would provide a more fiscally responsible travel option than walking. But the research went beyond hydration. “Let’s keep in mind that water is only a short-term fuel for the body. Really, water only deals with hydration levels. Energy– now that’s the kicker. That’s where food comes in.”

According to the study, a human of average weight, height, build, and age burns between 1800 and 2000 calories on a ten mile walk. “But where do those calories come from in the first place?” asks Dr. Guhaan Chandrasekhar, Director of Triviality Studies at Hopkins’ Bloomberg School of Public Health. “While our bodies are remarkable machines, they can’t simply fabricate the stored chemical energy that is used on physical excursions of this magnitude. The calories,” he continues, “we acquire with foods. And the foods we acquire with monies.”

The study reveals that the average marathon runner consumes $36.71 worth of food in the 24 hours before the race. In comparison, with a price of $1.70 per gallon of gasoline, an H2 consumes about $4.00 worth of fuel in order to travel the same distance. “This is not a mere triviality,” said Chandrasekhar. “In every instance in which you walk rather than drive your SUV, you are wasting money.”

Henderson echoed this concern in the press conference, asking the reporters how they arrived at Johns Hopkins for the news event. She scorned the journalists who said they walked or used public transportation, and gave gold stars to the ones who drove their own vehicles. One local reporter, for unknown reasons, drove an empty school bus to the press conference. He was awarded a medal.

Another reporter asked whether it was possible for anyone to outperform an H2, to which Henderson replied, “Well, I’m not at liberty to discuss all our clinical procedures with you. Suffice it to say that we’re quite sure no one can survive a marathon if they eat less than $4.00 worth of food.” When asked how sure, she simply responded, “Very.”

Given this breakthrough, the team of researchers encouraged people to drive whenever possible, at least as long as the cost of gasoline is low. “Park your car at the top of your driveway and drive down to the mailbox instead of walking,” Henderson suggested.

When asked about the environmental impact of such actions, Henderson replied, “Walking would keep you healthier, and therefore, alive longer. And you, fellow human, are far more of a threat to this planet than your Hummer.”