I remember the first time I was offered salt and sauce. Sauce, I thought. That's worryingly non-specific. A condiment and a mystery. What type of sauce exactly, I naÃ¯vely enquired? "Just sauce, pal," came the deadpan response
Ah, OK. New York was so good they named it twice. This stuff is clearly so brilliant they don't need to elaborate. What's in it? I didn't know then and I don't know now. I've been eating the stuff every August for the past nine years and I'm still none the wiser.
I would guess a mix of the following: the tears of a child, some leprechaun spit and a few drops of blood from the woman as yet unsullied by Ryan Giggs. If I was to describe it to one as yet uninitiated I'd say that it feels like Michael Jackson moonwalking on your tongue while simultaneously dangling a baby out of your window. It's spicy. I like it.
Apparently, only two employees know the exact secret blend of herbs and spices used by KFC. I guess the recipe for sauce is known only by the chip shop staff of Auld Reekie. And yet there can be no true recipe. Sauce varies from chippy to chippy. Sometimes it's tart and acidic. Sometimes spicy but ultimately unyielding, a condiment Rebekah Brooks. On occasion I'm overwhelmed by its sweetness and viscosity, stood speechless outside City Restaurant, a brown tributary streaming down my chin like some odd student performance piece about the 1919 Boston Molasses disaster.
To those who say it's just brown sauce and vinegar, Fie, I say! Like a clutch yo-yo or the 1988 Wimbledon FC squad, it's more than the sum of its parts. You only get it in Edinburgh. Maybe there's crack in it? That could be why I keep coming back.
l Lloyd Langford: The Cold Hard Facts of Life is at the Stand Comedy Club until 28 August. Today 10:05pm.