Such a Dish #20: The Parakeet
£9.50 for water. We’re being ridiculed by restaurants.
Typically, choosing a restaurant based on an Instagram reel isn’t my bag. Unless it’s TopJaw. That English cheeky posh boy routine really, really works. I stumbled upon a reel where a man was scooping chocolate mousse from a Venetian bowl onto a plate. My first thought was that it MUST be at Chez Janou, the iconic-fashionista-centric bistro in Paris. The service at Chez Janou is typically Parisien: ignore the Brits at all costs.
But no. This was not Chez Janou. This was The Parakeet in Kentish Town. Same?
Not the same.
So, I had to check out The Parakeet to see what the deal was! (And to give myself the chocolate-induced-oxytocin that I desperately needed). Importantly though, were they copying Chez Janou? This investigative journalist had to find out.
We traversed through Jumanji-style wet weather conditions, to Kentish Town. I think traversed is the most accurate verb. How dare restauranteurs choose to hide a great food spot next to an under-maintenance train station opposite a hardware store that’s clearly a front for money laundering.
You’ll find The Parakeet (TP) restaurant hidden at the back of a pub. We waltzed into the pub with no reservation in the hope nobody else had seen the Instagram reel OR had the similar audacity to go to a restaurant copycatting Chez Janou.
Incorrect assumption #1. It was rammed. We arrived:
At the end of lunch service, at 2.45pm
With no reservation
On a Saturday afternoon
On a rainy day
To a full dining room
I thought my (pretend) happy-go-lucky charm with the metrosexual host would bag us a table. I mean it’s worked so many times before. Incorrect assumption #2. Dare I say I write these illustrious restaurant reviews?! No, I wouldn’t dare. So, we were told to go sit in the pub. Or go elsewhere. I’m not sure it mattered to him. There were no tables.
Much to my chagrin, I discovered they don’t serve the restaurant food in the pub, only snacks. And then we would have travelled to Kentish Town to eat bar snacks amongst 23 year olds watching videos on their phones without looking up at each other.
So then we started to look up options of other establishments to try in the area. FYI: there aren’t any. Unless you’re into Franco Manca.
Then, the universe struck. It heard my prayers. To be honest, I was sitting on a bench near the host looking very sullen. I was doing my but-daddy-I-want-the-Gucci-shirt pouty face. I had no intention of eating bar snacks. Or going to Franco Manca. Then suddenly, the host walks over to me and says: “one of our reservations didn’t show up, and aren’t answering, the table’s yours!”
What can’t we summon!?
Right, I haven’t even gotten to the food yet. Sometimes I forget that bit.
So, we sit down. Obviously. Two options: sit facing the kitchen/watch the chefs or sit facing the restaurant/watch the people. I chose watch the people. People are fascinating. You’re fascinating.
We were greeted by our lovely waiter Adam. Within approximately 0.9 seconds I knew our waiter was Jewish. I feel like - at this point - I should caveat that I am, too. We just know. I don’t know. But we do. Anyway, I went out on a limb and said Shabbat Shalom. Normal behaviour. I didn’t do the Kiddush blessing on the Pinot Noir.
It felt like comfort. Adam was so knowledgeable and passionate about TP (even if it is owned by the Blues Kitchen team). He did the usual “‘Let me explain how the food works here” shtick. Spoiler: you order dishes, they bring it, you eat it (and it’s for sharing). I think I’m still not over this. Sorry. Why do they decide what the food is for? Once it hits our table, the paradigm of choice changes: both the quantity of food we choose to order and the way we consume it.
ANYWAY. Back to my future husband.
We did as Adam suggested.
We started with potato bread with smoked butter. All I can say is yes. However, £5. Don’t you love the margins on that. £5 for a slice of bread. FIVE POUNDS FOR A SLICE OF BREAD. Whilst this meal was very quite excellent, there were some deep flaws (beyond the Chez Janou impersonation).
We ordered this delicious grilled baby gem and mole verde (£10). (Half a lettuce for a tenner). Lettuce is 95% water. Ergo, £9.50 for water. We’re being ridiculed by restaurants. But the problem was not that we were being trolled. It was that it wasn’t mole. Having just been in Mexico, I was expecting mole. I mean it did say mole on the menu. This was not mole. I summoned (lol) Adam: “this is not mole?”. Adam replied “it’s our take on mole.” You don’t have a take on mole. Mole is a binary dish. It is either mole or not mole. This was not mole. This was a delicious green juice, that wasn’t mole.
What was also not mole, was this phenomenal lamb chop with cabbage and a pepper sauce. As I write this I can tell you that my mouth produced additional saliva when remembering licking the sauce off the plate. It’s about time we do something other than the combo of lamb, pea, and/or mint. Lamb with pepper sauce. Now we’re talking. So expertly balanced with the cabbage, too.
But the real main event was the poussin, which was divine. Stuffed with rice, basking in a jus and in a Jew shortly thereafter. It was sumptuous. Typically my main worry is that the jus will be too rich, too intense. This was done beautifully. It reminded me of the chicken I had at Chez L’Ami Louis - another Parisian great - which was the best chicken I’ve ever consumed. I would rush back to The Parakeet for this chicken, which was covered in roasted garlic. One by one, into the mouth.
Are you ready for the main event? This hunk of a man serving diabetes-inducing-goodness straight onto your plate.
The chain. The t-shirt. Everything. It’s just like Paris.
It’s kinda giving Bruce Bogtrotter vibes. Or school dinner lady.
The best part: Adam told us that this spectacle was their thing. That they had INVENTED the ladling of chocolate onto plates. It was probably in his onboarding. You must tell customers we invented chocolate mousse ladling. I felt bad bursting the bubble. But I had to tell him. He had to know the truth.
The beautiful part of the Chez Janou experience is that it’s a game. Picture the scene. You’re in a bouji Parisian restaurant, surrounded by models and high fashion elite, where most people aren’t really eating. They’re picking. Picking at the food. Mostly drinking wine. And then, their signature dish is chocolate mousse. And not just normal chocolate mousse. Dollops of it. And by dollops, I mean dollops. Quantities too big to finish. It’s a test, you’re not supposed to finish the mousse (I assume). If you do (we did) they give you more - for free - to stop you eating the mousse. That’s the way it’s done. In their giddiness at The Parakeet, they forgot a critical element of humanity: originality. It’s invariably hard to copy.
They would do so well to stick to their guns and make the stuffed poussin the menu star. We stuff it with sushi rice. We make the skin extra crispy. We drizzle it in jus. We top it with warm, roasted garlic that ooze into your mouth.
It’s Such a Dish.