Let me start by saying this; I'm not a junk food addict at home. I quite enjoy the odd burger but in general, I find that fast food leaves me feeling pretty terrible, not to mention its awful nutritional value. On a value for money level, too, it makes little sense - I'll be hungry just a couple of hours afterwards.
When I'm travelling, though, fast food presents an opportunity to quickly and cheaply recapture the comforts of home whilst (if you're lucky) experiencing a foreign take on what has become staple food for the developed world. Thus far the highlights of these experiences have included a spicy cottage cheese burger in India and a seal meat wrap in South Korea.
In Africa though, my cravings for the short blast of western-ness one gets from fast food were stronger than they have ever been. Perhaps it was the sameness of food usually available when we stopped in towns? Perhaps it was the unintended health kick of eating meals in camp cooked by (and with) my health concious tour mates? Either way, I was always on the hunt for fast food in Africa; leading to the supersized adventure I present to you today.
It didn't start that way though. In the 'taxi' (just a guy with a car hanging out at the airport) from Nairobi airport I spied a huge, gleaming KFC just a few kilometers from our campsite. As we bounced along the wrong side of the ridiculously potholed road I was inwardly pleased that the western world was never far away. This illusion was shattered the next day when we crossed the border into Tanzania to see the roads lined with ... nothing. I was reduced to eating day-old samosas from a cabinet at the border. Throughout Tanzania my food intake consisted of such samosas and hot chips - cooked by the side of the road and often combined with eggs to make a delicious omelette.
As delicious as the food looks, if I wanted it 'to go', it would be thrown into a plastic bag and handed to me with a grin and a toothpick. Invariably, in trying to skewer another succulent chip, my toothpick would pierce the bag cascading grease and sauce onto my lap.
The chip-and-egg-diet (soon to be turned into a best selling book by yours truly) was interrupted briefly in Dar es Salaam when, strolling through a classically African shopping centre near the ferry port I spied a Subway outlet. This was odd as Subway usually enters markets after the bigger players McDonalds, Burger King and KFC - and so far my search for these guys was turning up donuts. Not literally, of course. In any case, $4 later I had in my hand a 6 inch tandoori chicken sub with corn. It was acceptable, but only just. TIA, huh?
A small deviation from the fastest food in Africa is required to acknowledge the pig roast we had at Kande Beach, Malawi. This was undoubtedly, the slowest food in Africa - but worth it. At 0700hrs (quite the challenge after yet another epic Malawi night) a few of the guys from the truck and I ventured out into the village to witness the slaughter of an enormous pig. At about 0800hrs it was trussed up over coals (which seemed to appear from nowhere) and began to cook. 10 hours later, it was ready to eat.
Further south, Malawi's capital Lilongwe provided us with luxuries we had only dreamed of the for preceeding few weeks. The downtown shopping centre had 3 huge South African supermarkets, an ice cream parlour, and Nando's and Pizza Hut rip offs. To my delight, our stay here was elongated by classic African bureaucracy at the Mozambique embassy. The boredom that this lead to, coupled with the excruciating hangovers being suffered by most of the truck necessitated only one thing - a pizza run. When I found out that, for some reason, the delivery driver wouldn't be available to 5pm I took matters into my own hands and jumped into a taxi to collect them myself.
The driver explicitly stated that yes, he knew where Debonairs Pizza was. First stop, the Devonshire Tea House. No, I politely pointed out through the haze of my hangover, that's not right. Next stop, Pizza Inn. No, I seethed through clenched teeth, that's not it either. While the driver made a phone call Stacey, who had come along for the ride did quite well to calm me down. When we eventually made it I gave the customary nod to the Indian guys that ran the place (and all other retail establishments, it seems, in Malawi) and began the 15 minute process of ensuring that every pizza was accounted for. With that done we returned to camp, heroes.
Fast forward to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. A 'booze train' - as distinct from the pedestrian and rather boring 'booze cruise' - was the highlight of one of the evenings we spent there. Departing at 5pm from Victoria Falls' dilapidated railway station, the trip promised two hours of unlimited drinks and also some shit about good views or the Zambezi River or something. We had a rollicking good two hours on board and stumbled out seeking nourishment at 7pm. Destroying several roadside art installations, our raucous bunch made it to Chicken Inn, Zimbabwe's very own fried chicken chain at 7.30pm, shattering the peaceful aura of family dinner time for the customers present.
To call Chicken Inn 'fast food' would be something of a misnomer. Despite looking entirely like KFC, after ordering one would receive an electronic beeper to notify them when their meal was ready. I sometimes waited upwards of 45 minutes for a simple burger meal (truth be told, this wasn't the first time I had eaten there). The burger above, which I inhaled on the infamous booze train night, was intended to be a double chicken burger, but contained one chicken breast that had been cooked, cut in half and placed on top of the other half to give the illusion that it was 'double'. Further, the cheese which was meant to be in the burger and was, for some ridiculous reason, specifically mentioned as an item on the receipt, never materialised. In classic African fashion though, I pointed out these issues to the staff who cheerily gave me most of my money back.
Botswana marked the beginning of the heyday of my glutton's trip through Africa. Crossing the border and stopping for lunch at Chobe, I was aimlessly perusing the aisles of an outrageously westernised supermarket when I found myself in the prepared food section. Staring at me, from the toasty warm metal warming racks, was every man's dream meal - a plate of bacon, with a disposable fork to boot.
On face value the meal should have been amazing, but all of the elements of the burger didn't really go well together, the fries were soggy and the service (they offered full table service if you so desired) was surly at best.
Maun, Botswana served a similar purpose later that month as a beacon of westernisation in an otherwise very African landscape. Returning from three days bushcamping on an isolated island in the Okavango Delta, I showered the accumulated grime from my body and headed straight for the Nando's which sat proudly at the very center of Maun. The meal was on the small side, but luckily, eating with four ladies from the truck, I was invited to finish their meals too.
Namibia; famous for sand and not much else. We stopped at infernally hot Rundu where a group of us hit Hungry Lion for lunch. I, alone, thoroughly enjoyed my meal, while the others varied between mildly annoyed and fire-breathingly pissed off. The difference was meal choice; I had a fillet burger while the rest ate chicken pieces, which is a gamble in Africa where most chickens are the size of one's fist.
I was home.
When I'm travelling, though, fast food presents an opportunity to quickly and cheaply recapture the comforts of home whilst (if you're lucky) experiencing a foreign take on what has become staple food for the developed world. Thus far the highlights of these experiences have included a spicy cottage cheese burger in India and a seal meat wrap in South Korea.
In Africa though, my cravings for the short blast of western-ness one gets from fast food were stronger than they have ever been. Perhaps it was the sameness of food usually available when we stopped in towns? Perhaps it was the unintended health kick of eating meals in camp cooked by (and with) my health concious tour mates? Either way, I was always on the hunt for fast food in Africa; leading to the supersized adventure I present to you today.
It didn't start that way though. In the 'taxi' (just a guy with a car hanging out at the airport) from Nairobi airport I spied a huge, gleaming KFC just a few kilometers from our campsite. As we bounced along the wrong side of the ridiculously potholed road I was inwardly pleased that the western world was never far away. This illusion was shattered the next day when we crossed the border into Tanzania to see the roads lined with ... nothing. I was reduced to eating day-old samosas from a cabinet at the border. Throughout Tanzania my food intake consisted of such samosas and hot chips - cooked by the side of the road and often combined with eggs to make a delicious omelette.
As delicious as the food looks, if I wanted it 'to go', it would be thrown into a plastic bag and handed to me with a grin and a toothpick. Invariably, in trying to skewer another succulent chip, my toothpick would pierce the bag cascading grease and sauce onto my lap.
The chip-and-egg-diet (soon to be turned into a best selling book by yours truly) was interrupted briefly in Dar es Salaam when, strolling through a classically African shopping centre near the ferry port I spied a Subway outlet. This was odd as Subway usually enters markets after the bigger players McDonalds, Burger King and KFC - and so far my search for these guys was turning up donuts. Not literally, of course. In any case, $4 later I had in my hand a 6 inch tandoori chicken sub with corn. It was acceptable, but only just. TIA, huh?
A small deviation from the fastest food in Africa is required to acknowledge the pig roast we had at Kande Beach, Malawi. This was undoubtedly, the slowest food in Africa - but worth it. At 0700hrs (quite the challenge after yet another epic Malawi night) a few of the guys from the truck and I ventured out into the village to witness the slaughter of an enormous pig. At about 0800hrs it was trussed up over coals (which seemed to appear from nowhere) and began to cook. 10 hours later, it was ready to eat.
Further south, Malawi's capital Lilongwe provided us with luxuries we had only dreamed of the for preceeding few weeks. The downtown shopping centre had 3 huge South African supermarkets, an ice cream parlour, and Nando's and Pizza Hut rip offs. To my delight, our stay here was elongated by classic African bureaucracy at the Mozambique embassy. The boredom that this lead to, coupled with the excruciating hangovers being suffered by most of the truck necessitated only one thing - a pizza run. When I found out that, for some reason, the delivery driver wouldn't be available to 5pm I took matters into my own hands and jumped into a taxi to collect them myself.
The driver explicitly stated that yes, he knew where Debonairs Pizza was. First stop, the Devonshire Tea House. No, I politely pointed out through the haze of my hangover, that's not right. Next stop, Pizza Inn. No, I seethed through clenched teeth, that's not it either. While the driver made a phone call Stacey, who had come along for the ride did quite well to calm me down. When we eventually made it I gave the customary nod to the Indian guys that ran the place (and all other retail establishments, it seems, in Malawi) and began the 15 minute process of ensuring that every pizza was accounted for. With that done we returned to camp, heroes.
Fast forward to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. A 'booze train' - as distinct from the pedestrian and rather boring 'booze cruise' - was the highlight of one of the evenings we spent there. Departing at 5pm from Victoria Falls' dilapidated railway station, the trip promised two hours of unlimited drinks and also some shit about good views or the Zambezi River or something. We had a rollicking good two hours on board and stumbled out seeking nourishment at 7pm. Destroying several roadside art installations, our raucous bunch made it to Chicken Inn, Zimbabwe's very own fried chicken chain at 7.30pm, shattering the peaceful aura of family dinner time for the customers present.
To call Chicken Inn 'fast food' would be something of a misnomer. Despite looking entirely like KFC, after ordering one would receive an electronic beeper to notify them when their meal was ready. I sometimes waited upwards of 45 minutes for a simple burger meal (truth be told, this wasn't the first time I had eaten there). The burger above, which I inhaled on the infamous booze train night, was intended to be a double chicken burger, but contained one chicken breast that had been cooked, cut in half and placed on top of the other half to give the illusion that it was 'double'. Further, the cheese which was meant to be in the burger and was, for some ridiculous reason, specifically mentioned as an item on the receipt, never materialised. In classic African fashion though, I pointed out these issues to the staff who cheerily gave me most of my money back.
Botswana marked the beginning of the heyday of my glutton's trip through Africa. Crossing the border and stopping for lunch at Chobe, I was aimlessly perusing the aisles of an outrageously westernised supermarket when I found myself in the prepared food section. Staring at me, from the toasty warm metal warming racks, was every man's dream meal - a plate of bacon, with a disposable fork to boot.
A few days later, thirsty, starving and covered in dust from the morning's drive, the truck pulled into a service station for diesel. Gazing out the window I was certain I was looking into a mirage - staring back at me was the idle 25-strong workforce of a Wimpy's outlet attached to the service station. I bolted out the door and devoured a 'Three Tenners' deal which was fulfilling in that it was fast food, but depressing in most other ways. Even my Pavarotti joke to the staff didn't lighten the mood.
Maun, Botswana served a similar purpose later that month as a beacon of westernisation in an otherwise very African landscape. Returning from three days bushcamping on an isolated island in the Okavango Delta, I showered the accumulated grime from my body and headed straight for the Nando's which sat proudly at the very center of Maun. The meal was on the small side, but luckily, eating with four ladies from the truck, I was invited to finish their meals too.
Namibia; famous for sand and not much else. We stopped at infernally hot Rundu where a group of us hit Hungry Lion for lunch. I, alone, thoroughly enjoyed my meal, while the others varied between mildly annoyed and fire-breathingly pissed off. The difference was meal choice; I had a fillet burger while the rest ate chicken pieces, which is a gamble in Africa where most chickens are the size of one's fist.
8.30pm, Swakopmund Namibia. A few beers into the evening, I leaned on the counter of KFC, the only reasonably priced food outlet open at the late hour and requested a Zinger burger meal. 'We have no burgers today as we have no bread,' came the response from a staff member straining to translate the rebuff from Afrikaans to English in her head. Naturally, I suggested alternative arrangements; a burger without the bread, putting the burger fillings in a wrap, making bread out of potato chips and so forth but these were not appreciated. In the end I settled on a wrap which was hot, fresh and dripped grease down my hands so that it pooled in the crooks of my arms.
Cape Town, The Mother City of South Africa. World Tourism Destination of the Year 2011. Focus city of the FIFA 2010 Football World Cup. And the place where, on 29 November 2012, I finally ate McDonald's for the first time in almost 10 months. Walking around CT, I caught the golden arches out of the corner of my eye, on the second floor of the V&A Waterfront mall. I stood and stared at it for a full minute. Wordlessly, I started walking towards it and once inside, stared dumbstruck at the things I had almost forgotten existed. The prefix 'Mc'. The denoting of meals as 'Value Meals'. The eternal struggle between Small, Medium and Large. The option to supersize, hidden away in a discreet corner. I ordered, and walked with my tray, entranced, to a corner of the restaurant.
I was home.
The burger itself is very simple, as the name suggests, just imagine eating Zinger with a slice of cheese, it's that simple, Food Truck catering
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