I’ll be perfectly honest with you: I’ve never eaten KFC before.
I mean, sure, I’ve made my fair share of finger-licking jokes about eating out of a “bucket.” But to the best of my recollection, I have never, knowingly, invested in the Colonel’s secret recipe, never been “zung” by a burger, never wondered about the blend of 11 herbs and spices, and never nibbled a Kentucky Fried nugget.
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I have eaten fried chicken though, particularly in that hen heaven Berlin, where your deep-fried clucker comes with potato salad and a lump of bread that looks like a sun-damaged elbow, or atop a steering-wheel sized pile of rice and chickpeas with pickles served out of a goldfish bowl.
So when the invitation came to try my hand “behind the scenes” at one of London’s central KFCs, I accepted it in a heartbeat. Of course. Firstly, as someone who believes in the welfare of farm animals and casual workers, I was interested to see just what goes on back there, among the hot oil and the industrial sized sinks. But also because I would do a shift as an undertaker, bricklayer, beautician, cleaner, sewage worker, primary school teacher, or seamstress if it gave me a better understanding of what thousands of people do every day to make their living. Especially if I get a free dinner into the bargain.
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