I had high hopes for Dirty
Bones and, apart from the delightful company I went there with, they were
largely unmet.
The décor is now
standard-issue dive-diner. And it’s become a cliché that is not, in truth, much
cooler than a Byron. You know the score –the kitchen on show, leather-clad booths,
distressed metals, and hootchy-kootchy vintage art on the walls.
The service was patchy and they
successfully niggled one of my personal niggles by taking at least 15 minutes
to bring the first round of drinks.
The Mac Ball was the
stand-out dish for me, a gleefully greasy take on an arancini.
The Dirty Fries were moreish.
The ½ pile of Crispy Fried Chicken was good but not great. I’ve had better
chicken in several places, including Meat Mission’s Hippie Chicks and the buttermilk
chicken at The Ten Bells, to name two.
I think the measure of good
comfort food is abandoning your table manners. Not giving a cuss for cutlery, stuffing
it in and thieving your partner’s fries. And Dirty Bones missed this
mark.
On a spectrum of greasy,
glorious American fare, I would opt for Spuntino at the finer end or Shake
Shack at the everyday end every time.
No comments:
Post a Comment