More drug than nutrient: KFC drive-through reviewed

Drive-through restaurants were invented so Americans could spend more time in their cars. I don’t blame them. American cars are wonderful if you like cars with fins; so, in theory, is fast food, which is more accurately called fast death, even if they did not know that in 1947. There is a contradiction to the drive-through method of collecting food, a puzzle: if you drive, you have time to wait. But such things are not designed to be sensible. I wonder what other services could be made drive-through: lawyers and podiatrists, but my preference is for libraries and, possibly, sex.

These restaurants have thrived in pandemic, which again contradicts the Twitter craze for slow food and banana bread, which I think is a media invention, like the PM. But if you can’t get out of your car, you can’t kill a fellow diner, and so we drive to one of KFC’s 22,621 restaurants. This one is on the outskirts of Penzance.

I love to eat chicken, but since my husband invited four live chickens to share our home my feelings are more complex. They arrived upside down in a delivery man’s hands. He said they were resting. He said they liked it, but I wasn’t sure. I think they were petrified. When they stood up, I named them after fictional editors at the London Review of Books: Hildegard, Catherine, Claudia and Philippa. (David Hen Gurion was vetoed.) Possibly in unconscious homage to this, the dog is scared of them. My husband frets about their mental state and cooks them meals. When I took an extra roast potato at lunch he moaned: what about my girls? I had to sacrifice the potato.

I try to be sensitive.