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.