More Buildings and a Camden Bird

 

So I came back to Camden; the scent of poppers and jerk chicken; the bobbing sea of electric-dyed hair and shiny piercings that glint in the sunlight reflected off the Regent’s canal. It’s almost enough to make me feel nostalgic for the mornings spent pouring over bootlegged records and cones of chips and afternoons drinking lager in sticky-carpeted pubs. *almost*.

On this occasion there was little time for reminiscing as we were heading for brunch at Bird – the third branch of the fried chicken and doughnut mini-chain - before schlepping out to the far North west corner of the borough for the second stop on the Brutaltour.

Even better, they were having a delayed soft launch on our visit, with 50% off food for the weekend. Although our eagerness to eat chicken and drink beer, coupled with a delay in opening their doors, meant we had half an hour to browse the market and reminisce about our misspent youth. Although in my heyday it was more about Cyberdog and Nirvana T-shirts as opposed to the posh coffee and nitrogen ice cream I enjoyed on my last visit.

Anyway, back to brunch, and Bird stands out on the Kentish Town Road with its bright orange crest of a sign. Inside is kitted out with all the exposed brick and strip lighting you could wish for, although the tunes were resolutely old school, the highlight being Ja Rule and J Lo’s ‘I’m Real’ a song that not only does The Ewing know all the words to, but had also invented a little dance as she sang along. The best entertainment while waiting for our food.

The hipster-ness is cranked up to eleven with a beer menu that offers PBR, the sweet and fizzy American lager from Milwaukee that has found favour with the new beard and plaid generation who work in urban lofts rather than sawmills. It may have all the complexity of a pint of R Whites but, like the lemonade, when served ice cold it makes a great foil to spice and grease.

The waffles served with my fried chicken were delicately pale, like my Irish ancestors (I, sadly, inherited the pink gene), and I feared undercooked clagginess. Thankfully, my suspicions were unalloyed as the ‘doneness’ was spot on; crisp without and fluffy within. They also paired very well with the crisp-crusted chicken and side of smoky maple syrup - a winning combo if you like that sweet and savoury thing.

In comparison the star of the show, the fried chicken, was somewhat lacklustre, which was a shame as the whole concept hinges on it. It wasn’t bad, per se, but at seven quid for a drumstick and a small chunk of breast, it didn’t compare to a recent visit to Chick N Sours and was probably on par with the fast-food variety box I may have drunkenly consumed last weekend. Wings fared better and I liked the Nashville extra hot sauce, even if it lacked the powerful chilli punch the name suggested.

Sides wise, we both hungrily fought over the cheesy korean cheese fries with house kewpie mayo and gochujang glaze - which were excellent, although conservatively portioned – but the pickled cucumber was a bit of a let-down, featuring a few wan slices of fruit in an unremarkable dressing that made me want to visit Silk Road where they know how to smack a cucumber up.

While the Ewing was disappointed they didn’t run the full gamut of deserts offered at their other branches – including the retro banana split with squirty cream – I was more than happy they had freshly baked doughnuts, and even more so when I saw one of the daily flavours was cinnamon sugar. For me this was the highlight of brunch; a fluffy orb of warm dough, generously stuffed with vanilla ice cream and decorated with plenty of strawberry sauce and the aforementioned aerosol cream.

The bill came in at thirty quid, which included tip and a seventeen pound soft opening discount for the food. Decent value with the money off, but had we paid in full I think the phrase cheap at half the price would have been more apt. Still, not a bad option if you’re in the area and with a fried chicken and blue collar beer craving.  You can also grab fresh doughnuts to takeaway, available fresh daily, from 11 until sold out.

After lunch we made the second stop on my Brutalist architecture adventure that took us over Primrose Hill (it's windy there, but the view is so nice) to the magnificent Alexandra and Ainsworth Estate.

After first seeing the estate featured in the final episode of Prime Suspect I've wanted to visit Rowley Way and, even on a steel grey February afternoon, it didn't disappoint. Like it or loathe it this is an estate with real character, from the grey and green concrete to the bright blue railings. There's also a huge number of palm trees and tropical plants on the balconies, giving a whole new meaning to urban jungle.

This distinguished development was designed in 1968 by Neave Brown of Camden Council's Architects Department as an attempt to eschew the high rises that were cropping up across the capital and an answer to London's social housing shortage. Completed in 1978 the estate is constructed from site-cast, unpainted reinforced concrete, so beloved of the brutalists, and in 1994 became the first post-war council housing estate to be Grade II listed.

Instead of building up into the skies, he favoured a Ziggurat design of successively receding split level maisonettes, each with their own private outdoor area. This design also means the higher block directly adjacent to the railway line acts as a noise barrier that blocks the noise of the trains.

A must see for any modernists, and if you fancy seeing what's behind the frosted glass, look out for Open House London in September where selected flats on the A&A Estate can often be visited. Find out more about the place - including a chance to watch 'One Below the Queen: Rowley Way Speaks for Itself', a film featuring the estate's residents - link.

I Don't Like Mondays - 7Bone Edition

Finally the day had come - my last Monday unshackled by the horror of work had arrived (I had spent the penultimate Monday gorging rare steak and sticky toffee pudding, washed down with rioja with my Aunt and Uncle at Hawksmoor). Luckily for me it was also Easter Bank Holiday, so everyone else was off work to enjoy it with me. 

After a stroll along the beach (making time for an obligatory Mr Whippy) we found ourselves at 7Bone Burger Co., the second branch (the original, in Southampton featured on Russell Norman's Restaurant Man, no less) of a kind of Pitt Cue/ Meatliquor hybrid with the usual roll call of burgers, ribs and dogs topped with a smattering of cock scratchings - here not an embarrassing itch you pick up after a drunken fumble - that show no sign of falling out of fashion. But could a healthy dose of grease, smoke and booze rouse us from our pitifully hungover state.

The only way to find out was to start with a stiff hair of the dog and after necking a pint of Erdinger in the nearby Mary Shelly (an insalubrious gaff with very cheap beer) to start, I quickly moved on to a pickleback with a Dead Pony chaser. They also serve a range of Kernel and Beavertown beers, Hawaiian Kona and, rather incongruously, Delirium Tremens, the 8.5 percenter from Belgium.

We also drank our way through large swathes of the rest of the menu, including multiple Coronas (no lime), local Boondoggle ale from the nearby Ringwood Brewery, a 24 Unanswered Voicemails cocktail - rum shaken with fresh lime juice, campari & (com)passion fruit - very bitter, but rather nice, and, for the Monkey, the Game Over, a cocktail containing a myriad of different rums and topped with tropical fruit that is so potent it is limited to two per person. He, of course, drank three.

The chilli cheese fries were what I would choose to have fed to me on my death bed. Although I fear too many of the former would expedite the latter. The chips were crisp, the fiery ground beef chilli complemented by the blanket of gooey American cheese sauce, all crowned with a scattering of pickled jalapenos.

The superlatives continued with the rest of the sides. The Wings an’ a Prayer were served buffalo style with a ranch type dip although the liberal dousing in vinegary hot sauce was a little too lip-puckering, even for me (and I have been known to drink neat Sarsons on occasion).

The frickles were the best I've ever eaten, hands down, perfectly crisp and with a carapace of batter that adhered perfectly to the gherkin instead of slipping off in soggy strands.

For the main event I oscillated between a lump of protein from their smoker and a burger. In the end meat in a bun won out and I picked the single Prince Charles is Overrated with aged beef, bacon, cheese, shredded iceberg, pickles and dirty spread. 

Phenomenally shiny brioche bun aside, this is a pretty average looking burger from the outside; inside, however, it's a whole 'nother level. The meat was a perfect pink hue, and with just the right balance of grease and smoke and the gooey American cheese oozed seductively across the patty. Retrospectively, the advertised bacon was innocuous in the mix and the salad a bit lacklustre, but why weigh down a good burger with errant green stuff.

The Monkey inhaled his double Shuffle to the Straight Time - a simple beef patty, kansas style fried onions, cheese and american mustard combo - whilst the Ewing enjoyed her more outre Robert Johnston, stuffed with gloriously funky truffled garlic shrooms and truffle mayo.

The Lion picked a menage a trois of little three ounce sliders, the beefy Prince Charles and the Shuffle to the Straight Time alongside the Winner, Winner, a buttermilk fried chicken breast, charred baby gem lettuce, 7bone caesar dressing which possesed - or so the others told me, as I didn't seem to get to try it - impossibly tender chicken that even beat the bucket of California Chicken - alongside five bottles of red wine - we had chowed down on the night before.

For pud I went with the ice cream stuffed doughnut (you can also get a waffle). It feels like sacrilege to say it (I haven't yet found a custard I didn't like, even the NHS version that is pretty much served in slices), but I found the cereal milk custard the ring of fried dough sat atop of kinda strange. Didn't stop me polishing it all off, though.

We also shared a, decent enough, (S)knickers in a Twist shake - peanut butter, chocolate ice cream, caramel sauce and two shots of bourbon - whilst the Ewing, thwarted in her attempt to order the Scrappacino coffee shake as they had 'run out of coffee' made up for things with a gigantic coke float. The sugary taste of childhood. (The sugar content sent me hysterical - TE).

Walking back across the sand, watching the sun go down on a final Monday of freedom and with a belly full of beef and hangover already slowly encroaching, I couldn't have asked for a more fitting send off into the world of 9-5.