The great, recurring urban myth, now in glorious Twitter technicolour. KFC is, understandably, having none of it. That “some guy” is called Devorise Dixon, exactly the sort of name a person making up a rat story would give themselves. “As I looked down at it, I noticed that it was in a shape of a rat with a tail,” he said. “It sent deep chills throughout my whole body! I’ve been feeling weird ever since.” KFC has countered his claim that their manager admitted it was a rat by explaining they have made various attempts to contact the customer, or test the product, but he won’t speak to them. Long and short of it: it seems an awful lot of trouble to go to to get a lifetime’s supply of cheap fried chicken.
Magic Breakfast is a charity dedicated to providing breakfasts for thousands of children who arrive at school “too hungry to learn”. Hoi Polloi, in the Ace Hotel Shoreditch, hosted a dinner showcasing the talents of some of the capital’s top chefs, including this radiant raw scallop, pea and seaweed beauty from James Lowe of Lyle’s.
As a dedicated refusenik of the whole spiralise-your-way-to-health school of blogging, I’m one of those who cheered when the Food Babe and her pseudoscience got shot down in flames. This account, a wonderful send-up of the Deliciously Ella approach, is hilarious. I know who’d I’d rather follow any day. (Plus this looks bloody delicious.)
I’ve seen cakes made from cheese and pork pies, but raw fish is a new one on me. I love this sushi birthday cake, not least for its carrot butterflies and radish toadstools. Kawaii!
Tuna and trout, soya mirin mayonnaise, squid and coriander, the odd pickle – turned into a structural work of art. Beautiful but, weirdly, I don’t have the slightest desire to eat any of it. Put it under a glass dome, possibly; put it into my mouth, not so much.
Enough with the pulled pork. Social media exhaustion with the default “dirrrty” menu item has been rumbling for a while. With this horror, Asda has helpfully hammered the last nail into its stringy coffin. I am imagining it sliding out of its tin with a catfoody “plop”. Stop.
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