A guilty pleasure minus the pleasure, the Double Down rewards forensic investigation with the following inventory: sort-of-crunchy chicken breasts, so very white, so very soft, that speak of the terroir of the factory farm; pale yellow cheese that tastes of nothing yet melds itself to everything like tar; streaky bacon, a lip-tingling sodium bomb that could alone be used to justify a desal plant; and that sweet barbecue sauce, as though the folk in the test kitchen decided it needed some sort of balance. My heart did start beating faster, but it wasn’t love. Remorse and self-hatred followed the Double Down’s consumption like a forgotten side dish.
Age food critic Larissa Dubecki reviews the Double Down (via clembastow)