I ate the KFC Double Down and have lived to tell the tale.

A co-worker told me about this amazing concoction of two chicken “filets” that act as bread for a sandwich of bacon, two kinds of cheese, and the Colonel’s special sauce a couple of weeks ago, and I was counting down the days until it was released. They say this thing is so meaty it needs no bun, but it also apparently needs no lettuce, tomato, pickles, nor onion. That’s right–this thing is UNAPOLOGETICALLY UNHEALTHY. And that is what I love about America.

Apparently this is what everyone else loves about America, too, because all ten to twelve people in line with me at the KFC near Grand Central were speaking with European accents. At first I thought, “HaHA! See? Everyone else is just as fat-crazed as we are!” But then I realized they were actually probably like, “We’re only here on vacation for two days. What’s the craziest, most ridiculously indulgent American thing we can eat?” Thank you, KFC.

As I walked home from KFC, my paper bag swinging beside me, I couldn’t decide if I felt

a) totally dirty, or
b) as if I had Willy Wonka’s golden ticket in my hand.

As soon as I bit into the Double Down, though, the concerns about my well-being melted away. The chicken was flecked with herbs on the outside, bright white on the inside, and juicy allllllllll over. The two strips of bacon, unnaturally pink as they were, were just the right amount of crunchiness, and the cheeses were that perfect sort of half-melted you only get at fast food chains. I understand that people are afraid of this mysterious Colonel’s Sauce, but it was just a sort of Southwestern blend: spicy, peppery, slightly orange-colored.

The sauce was abundant, though not so much that it made the “sandwich” messy, and I really could see myself eating the thing in public without too many shirt-spills, despite its unusual composition. One was definitely filling enough, which is a good thing, since it cost as much as a value meal at any other fast food joint.

And I got the grilled version, which means my arteries only half-collapsed ten minutes after I finished, and I only half-hated myself in the morning.

Since late last year, my officemates and I have been holding a monthly dinner club where we invite our favourite co-workers past and present to dine with us on various cuisines from around the world. As last month’s dinner fell on St. Patrick’s Day, I asked my friend Beth to choose something Irish for us.

No one was excited about the prospect of this, I should mention. Not only did no one believe there’s such a thing as Irish cuisine, but we all imagined being forced into this crowded, divey bar with sticky floors and slobbering drunk frat boys. But when I walked into Kennedy’s, I discovered comfortable booths, old-timey music, and a long bar that was full but not overcrowded with a pleasant mix of young and old.

I’m a chicken pot pie fanatic, and I couldn’t have been more pleased with my thick, golden crust and its piping hot insides. The all-white chicken chunks were tender, huge, and cut in the jagged way that let you know they’re not thawed from a bag.

My friend Jack, along with about half of the table, ordered the shepherd’s pie, which was definitely fit for two people, though Jack certainly gave it a good go.

I find most New York cheesecakes sadly lacking compared to what I can make at home (or order at The Cheesecake Factory), but I couldn’t help wanting to try the Kahlua Cheesecake for dessert. Our waiter reluctantly explained that they had run out of it but then mentioned that pouring a shot of the coffee-flavored liqueur over a slice of cheesecake would give me the same effect. And so that’s what we did, and it was as awesome as expected.

Kennedy’s wouldn’t be the sort of place I’d take a date to impress him or the kind of restaurant I’d bring a visitor to if I wanted to give her a taste of NYC, but for generous portions of home-cooking in a completely unassuming and friendly atmosphere, I’d definitely go back. Plus, we sat beside Jackie Mason there, which means I get to add someone new to my personal blog’s list of Famous People I Have Seen While Living in New York City from July 2005 to Present.

Exciting, eh?

My friend Beth sent me a New York Times article called “First Camera, Then Fork” about the growing popularity of photographing the food we eat and posting it online for others to see. I was at first amused by these lines:

Photographing meals becomes pathological, however, if it interferes with careers or relationships or there’s anxiety associated with not doing it. “I’d have to ask if they would feel O.K. if they didn’t do it,” said Tracy Foose, a psychiatrist at the University of California, San Francisco, who treats patients with obsessive-compulsive disorders. “Could they resist the urge to do it?”

But then I realized that I actually do sometimes have problems resisting my urge to take pictures of all my meals. I’ll be dining with friends in Ohio, and I’ll see the way the light’s hitting the ketchup on my friend Katie’s daughter’s chicken nuggets just right, and I’ll be dying to ask to photograph it, but then I’ll stop myself and remember that I’m in a Dairy Queen and that normal people do not whip out their cameras in fast food chains.

The worst is that I also feel compelled to ask my friends to take pictures of their own food for me when we’re at dinner and they’re too far across the table for me to get a good shot. I was at The River Café with two friends recently, one of whom shares my photography aesthetic, and one of whom doesn’t. They both took photos of their dishes for me and then showed me the results, one of which was exactly the shot I would’ve taken, and one that was too far from the plate for me. Knowing that I wouldn’t like it, the first friend asked if I wanted her to re-take the second friend’s picture, and of course I did, and of course the second friend was sooooo offended. I didn’t mean it to be offensive, of course, but a good friend would’ve said, “No, the picture she took is perfect, and I’m happy to have a camera full of different styles of photography.”

But I couldn’t say that, because I have problems.

Serendipity 3 is probably the tourist destination in NYC when it comes to dining, and you would think the sometimes three-hour waits would keep people who actually live here away, but . . .

Okay, actually, I don’t think anyone who lives here does go there. BUT! I love it. Its two floors are filled with the oddest vintage lamps, clocks, mirrors, paintings, and bric-a-brac, none of which matches and all of which is tacky. In December, they have a neon pink Christmas tree and lighted snowflakes as big as you are covering the walls. It’d be offensive if it wasn’t so charming.

The menu is extensive, covering everything from pastas to crepes to hot dogs to the most inventive sandwiches. When I started visiting in 2005, I would always get the Summer Bries, which is smoked turkey, sliced apples, melted brie, and alfalfa sprouts, served on raisin pumpernickel with Russian dressing. Then I started trying different things on the menu: the Chicken Pot Pie (delicious, with giant hunks of white-meat chicken), The Alamo (a spicy black bean burger that was good but looked and tasted exactly like the Morningstar Farms version you can buy in your freezer section), the Chicken Salad Sandwich (great ingredients but not NEARLY enough mayonnaise).

For the past couple of years, though, there’s only one thing I’ll order: the Young Chicken Sandwich, an open-face concoction of chicken chunks crisply sautéed in butter with almonds, served on toasted Irish Soda Bread with greens. The butter practically drips off the chicken and soaks the soda bread, which is so delicious I’d eat it as a meal on its own. The crunchiness of the chicken and almonds contrasts so well with the soft bread, and although it comes with this vinegar-based curry sauce, I always request Russian dressing instead. And you should, too.

The whole reason for going to Serendipity, though, is the desserts. Now, the restaurant is famous for its Frozen Hot Chocolate, but let me tell you a secret: it’s not that good. It’s cold and chocolately as a frozen hot chocolate should be, but it’s extremely thin, like chocolate powder added to cold water. I want to be able to eat my desserts with a spoon, and this can be sipped from a straw and finished in ten seconds.

(You know what’s a lot better? The Frozen Hot Chocolate from Dairy Queen. No joke. It’s mixed with thick vanilla soft serve, and the chocolate sauce they add to it clings to the side of the cup for you to scrape off at the end. Plus, it’s about $6 cheaper than the Serendipity version. Unfortunately, it only seems to be available in the Midwest, which is why I make trips home to see my family in Ohio 6 to 8 times a year.)

Instead, I enjoy Serendipity’s sundaes, which are a meal in themselves at $15 but are weeeeeeeeeeeeell worth it and can be split amongst five people. The Can’t Say No Sundae with peanut butter pie, vanilla ice cream, bananas, hot fudge, and whipped cream is my favourite, but really, the Three Scoops of Ice Cream of your choice with one topping is just as impressive:

No matter what you order, half of it will fall off out of the sundae glass and onto the dish below. Do not be inhibited. Dig in.

I was picking up some salads from the Midtown East neighborhood gem Boi Sandwich yesterday, looking around the restaurant so the guy making my food didn’t feel like I was eagle-eying him to make sure he gave me enough pork, when I noticed a bag of chips that I must have noticed a million times before.

And yet this time, when I looked at the logo on the bag, all I could see were potatoes wearing loose condoms:

I tried to unsee it. I mean, it’s clearly potatoes with their ends sliced off, right? Where the first slice is the tip?

And yet. Condoms.