If God grants me longer life, I will see to it that no peasant in my kingdom will lack the means to have a chicken in the pot every Sunday.
-Henri IV

There it stood.

That multi-level “western” food flashiness: K. F. C.

I knew I shouldn’t, but its power was too great. I was on my way home and too tired to try and wok it up Chinese-style that night.

Excuses are stinky; I caved.

As I walked into this chain restaurant netherworld, I felt every single eye glaring at me. The place was packed, but I was completely alone in my inner humiliation. The walk to the counter was even more disgraceful. It looked exactly the same as the infamous fast food joint back home and I hadn’t been in a KFC for years.

What was I going to order? How was I going to order it!? These are questions that you think of way too late for impulsive crack moves like this…

The cashier said something in Chinese, which I understood as, “Welcome to KenDeJi, may I take your order?”

I had the fried wonderland at my finger-lickin’ fingertips, but I had no idea what to get. I quickly composed myself and a Chinese sentence, “I want a chicken hamburger.” (That was the only food I could translate at the time. If I had said, “chicken fingers,” I’m afraid they may have gone the literal route.)

The young lady didn’t have time for my poor Mandarin. She immediately handed me a full-page menu with color photographs and pointed at which “chicken hamburger” I really wanted. Honestly, none of them looked appetizing. Under so much pressure, I just randomly picked one. Note to self: never randomly pick one at KFC.

In total, my meal was about 35RMB, the same price I’d pay for many dishes of delicious Chinese cuisine. The sandwich was tiny. The meat was dark. And they only gave me a small napkin and one little ketchup packet, which I was warned about.

As I sat and ate this pitiful meal, I had lots of time to reflect… friends don’t let friends eat at KFC. Period.

Shame.

Heartburn.

More shame.

(It’s been almost 6 months, though… that ain’t too bad, right?)