Oh, oh, oh the sweetest thing

I wanted one as soon as I’d heard they existed. They sounded so good, so decedent, so terribly, terribly wrong. And a few weeks ago I fulfilled my five year quest: I finally had a deep-fried Mars bar.

I can’t remember where I heard about them – probably some Brit comedy – but I was immediately curious. Curious the way people are intrigued by car accidents and the first couple of episodes of each season of American Idol: a combination of shock, horror and awe. And while I can’t remember where I heard about them, I do remember my inner-monologue when I heard: “You mean they take something that’s already not-very good for you and deep fry it, making it really, really bad for you? I must have one.”

I told it was a British thing and so when I found myself in Britain I sought the DFM out. My excited inquiries at were met with expressions vague disgust and contempt (which is only slightly different from a regular “pleased-with life” Britsh expression). “That’s not English,” I was told. “That’s Scottish.”

So imagine my thrill when, out for fish and chips with my in-laws, the waitress tried to tempt us with dessert. The DMF was the last thing she mentioned and I audibly gasped when she said it. My wife looked across the table at me and sighed. Despite the fact that I had just consumed a large deep fried piece of fish and deep fried fries, she knew that she was going to watch me eat a deep fried chocolate bar.

And it was one of the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.