There has been much hype surrounding KFC’s new Cola BBQ Wicked Wings (mostly on KFC’s own Facebook page which I follow since I am of the sincere belief that simply seeing pictures of fatty food (and then consuming it) can make a hangover literally disappear).
It was due to this genius marketing technique (and a stream of constant ads on Spotify) that I found myself drawn to find out if they lived up to the hype.
The Feedback online was solid:
Bella called them Heaven – a good sign however she seemingly blamed KFC for her allergy to pulled pork (or just pork in general, I’m unsure) so perhaps her mental stability was questionable.
Jack loved them so much that he wanted to throw caution to all human biology and seemingly consume his own blood? That’s commitment to a cause bro.
And Hemant called KFC the best thing that happened in his life. And that’s understandable, his name is Hemant, literally everything that happened after he was named was probably a bonus.
I thought carefully about what I was planning to inflict upon my body. I’d already worked out that day (I went for a walk and then spent an hour in the yard attempting to hula hoop, finally getting the hang of it as my speakers blasted Ricky Martin’s Livin La Vida Loca and a young Indian family looked on curiously from the balcony that has a perfect view into my yard). Plus I hadn’t eaten since the previous night – it was now 2pm. I showered (after taking a photo of myself in my active wear to prove that I’d worked out) and momentarily considered putting on the jumper from the night before deciding against it due to the large curry stain on the front.
I decided upon wearing this T-shirt that was my favourite when I was 12 years old, for several reasons; 1) because dolphins are bad ass, 2) because it feels good to still be able to wear the same thing that fitted me when I was twelve (even if it does remind me that I was a bit of a chubber as a kid) and 3) I think the whole look I was going for made me come off as younger. I think it is okay to feast on KFC alone when you’re closer to eighteen than thirty so I tried to make it seem that way.
As I got in the car (even though KFC is a ten minute walk) my phone buzzed – hazzah, I’d reached my daily step goal. I really did deserve this.
I hit up the Prospect KFC on Main North Road, even though I’ve previously had shit experiences there (I once rode my bike here, drunk, only to wait so long for my food that I was sober by the time I re-mounted my treadly). I took the risk and history had a mild repeat; only one attendant already serving a woman who seemed to be the most painful customer in all known history but I felt for the girl behind the counter so I put aside my judgement and politely waited in line. When my turn came I placed my order (3 x Cola BBQ Chicken Wings, Large Chips and Gravy and Large Frozen Mountain Dew) while mentally taking note of the energy intake because I just love to hate myself (at least 4,440kj, around half the daily recommended intake for an adult – YAY).
The food arrived and while I was mildly irritate that I had to ask for the cutlery pack (containing the all important trademark KFC wet wipe) I was excited for what promised to be a flavour sensation.
I decided to eat in because I’m concerned my housemate already thinks I’m a failure at life, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.
The woman at the table next to me was repeatedly asking her daughter (Erin Ray – I assume it is spelled like that but on surface appearance, this woman likely spelled it “Erryne Rayé”) if she needed to go to the toilet and to stop standing on the table so I decided to put my headphones in. I chose R Kelly’s ‘Bump n Grind’ because chicken is a really sensual food and deserves a sound track to match (I chose to pretend that R Kelly has never experienced controversy to ensure that I could better enjoy my juicy snack, I’ve shared the lyric video version below so that you can enjoy the song without SEEING R Kelly.).
First I licked the sauce – I apologise if that is a visual that you never wanted in your mind however it was worth it. The sauce truly is the real highlight here. Every flavour that my tongue has experienced up until now pales in comparison (and I once had pasta sauce made with condensed milk). Angels sang and unicorns danced with every flavour hit. This sauce really is absolutely everything that was promised – I don’t care what comes out of your Italian Grandmothers kitchen, it is total rubbish compared to this gift from the Gods – in fact, nothing this tasty could come from Heaven, as the name implies only the devil could supply something so delicious,which makes sense since we all know that The Colonel was no saint.
The chicken was a nice bonus. Could have been hotter, skin was good, like I said, everything else pales in comparison to the sauce.
As I took my last bite I removed my headphones, sat back and took in the scenery. Playing over the in store sound system was ‘Let Her Cry’ by Hootie and The Blowfish, which seemed weirdly appropriate. There was a woman in her mid-forties sitting not too far away, digging into a family feast all alone, a sign in the window encouraging KFC customers to donate to a charity raising funds for starving children and in the car park a ute with a sticker that disturbingly proclaimed “Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians”. Despite being surrounded by such sadness, despair and grotesque horror I was in my element – truly in love with a sauce.
If KFC offered me to (please do) I would consume every meal for a month with that sauce on it and I will pray to God that my boyfriend likes the KFC Cola BBQ sauce because if my wishes come true it won’t be long before my body tastes of it. God bless you junk food giants.