Jump to content
Sign in to follow this  
Big Gus

The KFC and Pizza Hut Popcorn Chicken Pizza

Recommended Posts

6 hours ago, Dele said:

Indeed. And double oaft. 

That looks fucking glorious. Imagine that but subbing on steak and gravy instead of Scotch. 

Triple oaft. 

I'm all out of oafts, I'm so lost without you. I k ow you were right, believing for so long. 

Steak and blackpudding pie would be even better

Quadruple oaft

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
10 hours ago, Scotty Tunbridge said:

People moaning about the prices of dominoes I get, but nobody actually pays full price for these pizza places surely? there is literally always a deal on BOGOF, 2 pizzas 2 sides for so much.

 

What's the average price of a pizza at Dominos, about £16 or 18? Them giving you a second pizza "free" after you've paid that price is a con. They'll have these offers on all the time to persuade folk to pay the initial massively-inflated price, which more than likely covers any freebies they seem to give away.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
7 minutes ago, The Moonster said:

What's the average price of a pizza at Dominos, about £16 or 18? Them giving you a second pizza "free" after you've paid that price is a con. They'll have these offers on all the time to persuade folk to pay the initial massively-inflated price, which more than likely covers any freebies they seem to give away.

I usually get the small feed the flat if I'm hungover AF. Two pizza, two garlic pizza breads and a chicken side for £20.

Sunday dinner and tea. Monday dinner and tea. 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
3 minutes ago, KnightswoodBear said:

Everyone agrees that Asda freshly made pizzas are the best ones, right?

Nah, they're terrible nowadays. A severe drop in standards. 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Mind when Pizza Hut did pizzas with cheeseburgers in the crust because, erm, reasons?

pizza_hut_burger_2674659b.jpg

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
2 minutes ago, RiG said:

Mind when Pizza Hut did pizzas with cheeseburgers in the crust because, erm, reasons?

pizza_hut_burger_2674659b.jpg

Trypophobia/Things that give you the Heebie Jeebies thread for this pish.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
How did I miss that? Raging!
back in topic, I'd eat the the popcorn chicken one even though it would shorten my life even more than the rest of you due to my terminal coeliac diagnosis. I'll accept any donations towards the cost.

Ration book not cover that Sarge?

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
Guest bernardblack
Nah, they're terrible nowadays. A severe drop in standards. 


I tried the calzone at the weekend and it was extremely poor

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I see Dominos share price has risen 7% today, proof that capitalism is doomed.  If there was any moral element in the market at all it would be at zero.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
3 hours ago, RiG said:

Mind when Pizza Hut did pizzas with cheeseburgers in the crust because, erm, reasons?

pizza_hut_burger_2674659b.jpg

AA GIll wrote a review of this for the SUnday Times, it was a fantastically pithy piece of writing.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

e afraid, tastebuds — it’s the beefy horror pizza show

The burger pizza is the latest fast-food offering on the high street, but is it scarily scrumptious or a Frankenstein fusion? Our restaurant critic dares to take a bite

 
AA Gill
Sunday November 03 2013, 12.01am, The Sunday Times
Share
 
 
 
 
Save
 

The hamburger owes its rise to Henry Ford and the affordable car, and the roads that had to be built for salesmen, families and the migratory dustbowl poor to motor down, and the gas stations and diners that filled up man and machine. So the hot meat sandwich was the answer to a modern need, pit-stop petrol for humans.

The pizza is rather older, possibly Greek in origin, its etymology unclear, though not its ingredients. It is bread with some flavourings plucked from the surrounding lands — thyme and laurel, goat’s cheese, olives. Something like pizza was made by the Romans with focaccia. In the incarnation we know, pizza had to wait for the discovery of America and tomatoes. Italians were the first Europeans to bravely eat the love apple, realising by brutal trial and error that it wasn’t a type of deadly nightshade.

Pizza is a dish of the poor south, used like yorkshire pudding to pad out hunger so that the more expensive ingredients will go further. It is always simple, cooked in a kiln-hot oven, far hotter than your domestic cooker will ever manage.

Pizza travelled with Italian migrants back to America where it got bigger and fatter and floppier and sloppier and competes with the hamburger. They remain friendly but separate, integrated into the fast finger food but never amalgamated, until the Doctor Moreau, horror-food eugenicists came up with the burger pizza.

What hellish new super-chew orthodoxy, what fundamentalist mullah of taste decided that the world needed this nightmare pushmi-pullyu, this pit-spawned, misbegotten basilisk, this sticky chimera, this foul, unnatural, Caliban union of dribble-chinned fast food?

 

You could imagine the mad Pizza Hut scientists in their jackboots and white coats, in their secret lair where nothing grows, cackling with satanic glee as the lightning flashes over their pestilential confection.

Nothing as gastrically heinous as this can be made without first doing a lot of market research. Pizza Hut hasn’t got where it is today without pandering to the baser appetites of its customers. I imagine they sent out questionnaires with the deliveries asking: if you could put anything on top of a pizza, what would it be? A) more pineapple; B) a generous scraping of white truffle; C) Viagra; D) quinoa and kale; E) a hamburger; F) half a dozen hamburgers; G) other. In the “other” suggestion box I suspect most responded with: “A packet of extra-large Rizlas, mate.”

So on your behalf, because someone has to step up and try it, to bring back the vivid truth, because this newspaper has a proud tradition of investigative journalism, and because hacks have just had a bit of a bad week, I voluntarily put myself in harm’s way so you can know the truth about the burger pizza.

It comes in the night. Actually close to teatime in my case, delivered by scooter, the urban drone of collateral calorific damage. Someone somewhere just puts these things in a box and pushes a button. They never see the destruction, the children with smeared faces, and they make their victims sign for it. So the first thing you notice, even before it’s out of the box, is the smell, the overpowering aggressive thuggish smell. From three floors up, the Blonde shouted: “Christ, what’s that smell?” It’s organic, but not like food. It smells of farm and rot and armpit. If the Gruffalo farted, this is what Gruffalo fart would smell like.

Open the box and it gets a whole lot worse. There’s the added nidor of damp warm cardboard. What I’ve been sent is the barbecue steak pizza with mini cheeseburgers and Heinz dipping sauce. I expect UN chemical warfare officers to knock on the door any day. The thing is huge. I had no idea they came this large. How many people is this supposed to feed?

As a piece of Willy Wonka engineering it’s quite something. The edges are crimped into divots in which nestle a ball of burger, like the ball bearings put into suicide fast food. They are the size of infant fists, topped with a congealing pustule of splat, of yellow cheese-style gunge. I haven’t eaten all day and am quite hungry, but the smell has grabbed my appetite and dragged it into a narrow dark place where it is being beaten unconscious.

The pizza crust isn’t actually pizza at all, or indeed crust. It’s a coarse, pale cake, and the first and pretty much the last mouthful is a real surprise. No, it’s a poleaxeing shock.

I can’t remember the last time I was so flabbergasted by the difference between plummeting expectations and hideous actuality. It’s sweet. Not just sweetish, or sweet and sour. It’s tooth-curlingly, diabetically sugary. There is a mild background flavour of tinned tomato and a hint of malt vinegar. There is a texture of something dead and mutilated, possibly dragged from a canal, but without a pathologist and a chemistry set it would be impossible to identify what it once was, or indeed the genus of any of the other things that may or may not be vegetable but could also be whatever it is that clogs shower drains.

The meatball burger is brown. It tastes brown and gritty, something that has passed through many colons with a grimace. It’s like chewing old man’s corduroy. If for a year you had eaten only Siberian gulag rations it would be merely unpleasant. My children wouldn’t touch it. The Blonde wouldn’t be in the same room as it. I suggested donating it to the homeless man who sleeps outside the local hospital. With her finest nightingale voice, the Blonde hissed: “Don’t you think he’s probably suffered enough? And we can’t just put it in the bin. It’ll poison the foxes. We’ll have to double-bag it, like casual rough sex.”

Given my job, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth, but it is probably the worst thing that was pretending to be food and made you pay. It’s not that I’m against binary cross-cultural combinations of ingredients or dishes. When Miss Strawberry Jam threw herself on top of Mr Peanut Butter, it was food porn of the highest order.

The marvellous thing about grub is that it is no respecter of borders or prejudices or manners. There was a UN on the table long before politicians got round to it. But each time you mix and match, you have to ask: is this an improvement that is greater than the sum of its parts? And in this case, the regurgitated answer is a glottal no. And the parts weren’t particularly toothsome to begin with. Forget the benign tinkering of GM, this is real Frankenstein food. This is a glimpse into the stinking box that contains the end of civilisation as we know it.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
8 minutes ago, ICTChris said:

e afraid, tastebuds — it’s the beefy horror pizza show

The burger pizza is the latest fast-food offering on the high street, but is it scarily scrumptious or a Frankenstein fusion? Our restaurant critic dares to take a bite

 
AA Gill
Sunday November 03 2013, 12.01am, The Sunday Times
Share
 
 
 
 
Save
 

The hamburger owes its rise to Henry Ford and the affordable car, and the roads that had to be built for salesmen, families and the migratory dustbowl poor to motor down, and the gas stations and diners that filled up man and machine. So the hot meat sandwich was the answer to a modern need, pit-stop petrol for humans.

The pizza is rather older, possibly Greek in origin, its etymology unclear, though not its ingredients. It is bread with some flavourings plucked from the surrounding lands — thyme and laurel, goat’s cheese, olives. Something like pizza was made by the Romans with focaccia. In the incarnation we know, pizza had to wait for the discovery of America and tomatoes. Italians were the first Europeans to bravely eat the love apple, realising by brutal trial and error that it wasn’t a type of deadly nightshade.

Pizza is a dish of the poor south, used like yorkshire pudding to pad out hunger so that the more expensive ingredients will go further. It is always simple, cooked in a kiln-hot oven, far hotter than your domestic cooker will ever manage.

Pizza travelled with Italian migrants back to America where it got bigger and fatter and floppier and sloppier and competes with the hamburger. They remain friendly but separate, integrated into the fast finger food but never amalgamated, until the Doctor Moreau, horror-food eugenicists came up with the burger pizza.

What hellish new super-chew orthodoxy, what fundamentalist mullah of taste decided that the world needed this nightmare pushmi-pullyu, this pit-spawned, misbegotten basilisk, this sticky chimera, this foul, unnatural, Caliban union of dribble-chinned fast food?

 

You could imagine the mad Pizza Hut scientists in their jackboots and white coats, in their secret lair where nothing grows, cackling with satanic glee as the lightning flashes over their pestilential confection.

Nothing as gastrically heinous as this can be made without first doing a lot of market research. Pizza Hut hasn’t got where it is today without pandering to the baser appetites of its customers. I imagine they sent out questionnaires with the deliveries asking: if you could put anything on top of a pizza, what would it be? A) more pineapple; B) a generous scraping of white truffle; C) Viagra; D) quinoa and kale; E) a hamburger; F) half a dozen hamburgers; G) other. In the “other” suggestion box I suspect most responded with: “A packet of extra-large Rizlas, mate.”

So on your behalf, because someone has to step up and try it, to bring back the vivid truth, because this newspaper has a proud tradition of investigative journalism, and because hacks have just had a bit of a bad week, I voluntarily put myself in harm’s way so you can know the truth about the burger pizza.

It comes in the night. Actually close to teatime in my case, delivered by scooter, the urban drone of collateral calorific damage. Someone somewhere just puts these things in a box and pushes a button. They never see the destruction, the children with smeared faces, and they make their victims sign for it. So the first thing you notice, even before it’s out of the box, is the smell, the overpowering aggressive thuggish smell. From three floors up, the Blonde shouted: “Christ, what’s that smell?” It’s organic, but not like food. It smells of farm and rot and armpit. If the Gruffalo farted, this is what Gruffalo fart would smell like.

Open the box and it gets a whole lot worse. There’s the added nidor of damp warm cardboard. What I’ve been sent is the barbecue steak pizza with mini cheeseburgers and Heinz dipping sauce. I expect UN chemical warfare officers to knock on the door any day. The thing is huge. I had no idea they came this large. How many people is this supposed to feed?

As a piece of Willy Wonka engineering it’s quite something. The edges are crimped into divots in which nestle a ball of burger, like the ball bearings put into suicide fast food. They are the size of infant fists, topped with a congealing pustule of splat, of yellow cheese-style gunge. I haven’t eaten all day and am quite hungry, but the smell has grabbed my appetite and dragged it into a narrow dark place where it is being beaten unconscious.

The pizza crust isn’t actually pizza at all, or indeed crust. It’s a coarse, pale cake, and the first and pretty much the last mouthful is a real surprise. No, it’s a poleaxeing shock.

I can’t remember the last time I was so flabbergasted by the difference between plummeting expectations and hideous actuality. It’s sweet. Not just sweetish, or sweet and sour. It’s tooth-curlingly, diabetically sugary. There is a mild background flavour of tinned tomato and a hint of malt vinegar. There is a texture of something dead and mutilated, possibly dragged from a canal, but without a pathologist and a chemistry set it would be impossible to identify what it once was, or indeed the genus of any of the other things that may or may not be vegetable but could also be whatever it is that clogs shower drains.

The meatball burger is brown. It tastes brown and gritty, something that has passed through many colons with a grimace. It’s like chewing old man’s corduroy. If for a year you had eaten only Siberian gulag rations it would be merely unpleasant. My children wouldn’t touch it. The Blonde wouldn’t be in the same room as it. I suggested donating it to the homeless man who sleeps outside the local hospital. With her finest nightingale voice, the Blonde hissed: “Don’t you think he’s probably suffered enough? And we can’t just put it in the bin. It’ll poison the foxes. We’ll have to double-bag it, like casual rough sex.”

Given my job, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth, but it is probably the worst thing that was pretending to be food and made you pay. It’s not that I’m against binary cross-cultural combinations of ingredients or dishes. When Miss Strawberry Jam threw herself on top of Mr Peanut Butter, it was food porn of the highest order.

The marvellous thing about grub is that it is no respecter of borders or prejudices or manners. There was a UN on the table long before politicians got round to it. But each time you mix and match, you have to ask: is this an improvement that is greater than the sum of its parts? And in this case, the regurgitated answer is a glottal no. And the parts weren’t particularly toothsome to begin with. Forget the benign tinkering of GM, this is real Frankenstein food. This is a glimpse into the stinking box that contains the end of civilisation as we know it.

That’ll be a yes then.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
53 minutes ago, ICTChris said:

AA GIll wrote a review of this for the SUnday Times, it was a fantastically pithy piece of writing.

I much preferred his Winnie The Pooh books as a child...

Back to the KFC popcorn abomination I would not touch due to an aversion to the popcorn that resulted in projectile vomiting and a binned sleeping bag after a night out in Newcastle...

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Loading...
Sign in to follow this  

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.

×
×
  • Create New...