Starter: Greggs' sausage roll (60p)
Main: Greggs' new chicken tikka lattice (£1.15, £2.20 for two)
Dessert: Doughnuts (4 for £2.20)
I think someone in Greggs head office may have mistaken tikka with tomatoes. If I took this to a curry house, they’d hit me with it.
It was raining. Sandwiches are boring in the rain.
Pick any pasty from Greggs. You’ve got the picture.
I’m always slightly horrified at the size of the queues snaking in and often out of the doors of pretty much any Greggs I ever walk past.
I’m also constantly amazed by the social make-up of said queues. All of life is here, from building site to legal chamber. Including me. More regularly than is probably healthy.
The length of the queue gives you the time to ponder the options, as well as stare gormlessly at the chiller cabinet full of sandwiches, or ‘posh food’ as two young scamps behind me remarked.
Looking toward the counter and bakery bit, it’s like that scene in The Matrix where hundreds of Agent Smiths turn up. But with pastry.
Pretty much everything is on a multi-buy deal. Want a sausage roll? No, have four. How about a pasty? No, have two. Perhaps bring a date.
I noticed the walls were emblazoned with posters plugging the new boy in town – the chicken tikka lattice pasty. Decision made.
I like to begin with a small appetiser though, so I decided to start with a sausage roll. From the first bite, I could taste salt, an unfathomable moistness and possibly amphetamines, such was the instant rush to my hungry head.
It looked, to all intents and purposes, like a sad snake in a shallow grave. It was to be the highlight of the meal.
Not knowing what was to come, I carried on with gusto, taking a Northern-sized bit out of the chicken tikka pasty.
And then another one, to try and get some of the alleged filling.
I think someone in Greggs head office may have mistaken tikka with tomatoes. If I took this to a curry house, they’d hit me with it. I ate it approximately 26 minutes ago, and it’s repeating on me already.
Minor redemption came in the form of the assorted doughnuts, which was like being punched in the face with a fist made of sugar.
I shared a box of five with colleagues. They are all waiting for the inevitable mid-afternoon crash.
I feel guilty and ashamed, and a stone heavier. I’m also so euphorically happy from the doughnuts that I don’t care. I fully expect a bout of chronic depression later today.See you in the queue next week?
Guilt factor rating: 9/10
Quality rating: 2/10
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