Rejoice, ye multitudes. The Snacktivist is about to deliver his verdict on A&W. Nearly a full month after it first opened its doors at the new crown jewel (heh) of consumerism that is Jewel Changi Airport.
Took you long enough, Snacktivist.
Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s a damn critic these days.
A brief explanation is in order. You should know by now that the Snacktivist is a person for whom life holds few horrors. I laugh in the face of eating six different types of Japanese snacks one after the other. I spit in the eye of thousand-calorie meals in the form of McDonald’s Nasi Lemak Burger plus add-ons, and have bravely faced down multiple packs of Yan Yan in one sitting.
One thing, however, scares me more than all the above.
But wait, one more thing terrifies me to no end: large crowds.
Now, you must be thinking that the Snacktivist is some kind of daylight-hating, people-shunning Gollum-esque homunculus, hunched over a bag of potato chips and mumbling unintelligibly.
I’ll have you know that’s untrue. About the daylight-hating, people-shunning part, at least.
So with that hatred of large clumps of congealed humanity, I made certain that the teeming zombie hordes dispersed before venturing there, which is why I’m only going a month after it opened.
Just to be doubly sure I wouldn’t have to encounter a seething wall of humanity, I went there for breakfast.
A nutritionist will no doubt have quite a lot to say about eating a nitrate popsicle as a first meal of the day, to say nothing about washing it down with an overly sweetened carbonated drink. And of course, a helping of deep-fried sodium-coated tubers on the side.
Mmm-mmm. Breakfast of champions.
Take note, kiddies. That’s breakfast of champions, not breakfast for champions. It triggers me so hard when people say the latter, almost as hard as it triggers me when people say “stuffs”.
Who says The Snackdown isn’t educational?
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, while a nutritionist might have something to say about eating hotdogs for breakfast, I certainly don’t have a lot to say about this particular hotdog other than how I’m so glad I didn’t spend two hours of my life queueing up for it.
In all fairness, I think nothing is worth queueing two hours of my life for. Not for a limited-edition Big Mac merch (heavy breathing), not for bak kwa and certainly not for a sub-par hotdog.
The bun is dry, airy and has about as much substance as the content of any Snackdown review. The sauce gracing the top of the borderline mummified sausage tastes like it’s made from meat.
Meat from the unmentionable parts of an animal, which probably goes the same for the sausage. You can have it in two varieties—beef or chicken. I had the chicken, though I don’t suppose it would make too much of a difference if I had the beef sausage.
In that the whole thing would still taste like eating a disconcertingly plasticky sausage drenched in what seems to be the partially digested contents of a zombie’s stomach. All that is trapped in the chill embrace of a not-nearly-bun that somehow, somehow manages to sustain corporeal form.
Pay no heed to the pretty, doctored press images and the amazing work done by our resident image manipulation expert, Hazirah Rahim. The Coney Dog IRL looks like it’s begging for the sweet oblivion of death.
The Coney Dog has no mouth, but it must scream. And after having eaten it, so must I.
10-word review: Being killed with fire is almost too merciful a death.
Best paired with: The rubbish bin, if you're silly enough to have actually gotten one a Coney Dog, despite me telling you not to.