Stroud Green N4. Breakfast Bucket (includes drink) £4.99
(This rating in no way relates to the Food Standards Agency rating of 1 star)
Don’t let the understated exterior put you off. The sustainably-produced window boarding is hiding more than a shattered shopfront. It’s sheltering an oasis. An oasis of chicken.
If you want to sit, you’ll need to get here early. They don’t take bookings and the table only has four (attached) chairs. I arrive at 9 AM, aiming to beat the rush. There is a tense but brief standoff with some school kids getting their breakfast, and then I am treated to a warm welcome from chef and restaurateur George Candelabra. With a single sweep of his arm he clears the table and ushers me to my seat.
Following the hungry teenagers’ example, I order the Breakfast Bucket. While I wait, George brings a freshly squeezed orange juice, which it turns out is freshly squeezed from a Capri Sun pouch. But before I even take a sip, my bucket arrives, sizzling with promise.
Thrillingly, at first glance there’s no chicken. But it’s in there, oh yes. You just have to earn it.
Like a hungry archeologist, I dig through the strata. The topsoil, a layer of chicken chow mein, richly oiled. Once cleared, a more resistant layer is revealed — a thick disk of chicken pizza seals the chamber below. It needs to be levered up with a fork, like a cheesy concrete slab. I slip my prongs between bucket side and pizza crust. A gap opens. A hot breath of piri piri steam hints at the treasure within. Is this how Howard Carter felt when he opened the young pharaoh’s tomb?
In a frenzy, I throw the fork over my shoulder, plunge my greasy hands into the depths and grasp a wing. For one beautiful moment me and my chicken go hand in hand. It as if we have reached an understanding. I have permission to eat. It is what we both want.
The batter is soft and yielding, the flesh so plump with oil that I hardly need to chew. Wing, leg, back, face, I eat it all, and drink the last drops of oil straight from the bucket. The acid tang of Capri Sun clears a channel through my grease-coated gullet.
I slump back in my chair, sated, and gratefully accept the silver napkin container George throws at me. I use every one of the tiny serviettes in an attempt to clean my hot, shining face, and then stumble happily into the street. A fleet of watchful seagulls circles overhead.
