The Platonic Ideal of KFC

In the last few weeks I’ve made the long drive down to Busselton or Bunbury and back about ten times. Today, on my last drive back to Perth for, I think, a week or so, noticing my eyes were getting that droopy feeling, I stopped at one of the roadside service centres to get a coffee. I decided to pass on the coffee, which I knew would be either too milky or too bitter. A splash of cold water in my face did the trick to snap me out of highway fatigue.

But I was feeling peckish. Against my better judgment I went for one single piece of KFC original recipe chicken. KFC is one of my most reliable disappointments with Australian fast food. I should add that I judge all fast food by Japan standards — a very high bar. It’s either too soggy, too oily or too dry. But I just needed some calories to keep me going.

When I got back to my car (air-conditioning and good music) I opened the little one-piece pack to find the platonic ideal of KFC — crispy, flavourful and perfectly cooked inside. My faith in the fast food gods have been (temporarily, I’m sure) restored.

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