The Londoner: This Week, the Dude is a Bloke
Londoner's chicken and chips, as captured by the low-res spy camera hidden in our glasses. We need new glasses.
2909 Thomas Ave.
Dude Factor: 9, or Clive Owen, on a scale of 1 (Daniel Radcliffe) to 10 (Keith Richards).
I'm pretty much the exact opposite of an Anglophile. Sure, I love the Rolling Stones and Sacha Baron Cohen, but when it comes to those pop culture touchstones that are defiantly British, I could care less. I don't find Monty Python funny. I hate Coldplay and Harry Potter with equal measure. I've never been able to muster up enough interest to watch a single episode of the British Office, etc., etc. I could go on all day.
So, when I say that enjoy the joint known as the Londoner, I'm really saying something. Granted, I've yet to check out the Londoner at night, when it may or may not be filled with the Uptown types who call the State and Allen neighborhood home -- a good or bad thing depending on who you ask. But at lunch it's usually pretty dead in there, and the bar food is killer.
At some point in my many years of spewing hatred across the Atlantic I somehow acquired a taste for fish and chips, which the Londoner does quite well. But if someone had told me that the best chicken fingers in Dallas would be found in a British pub, I would have laughed at them
six weeks ago -- but now I know the truth, and my beliefs have been shaken to the core.
Seriously, the chicken and chips platter at the Londoner is a work of art. Five or six beer battered chicken strips served on a bed of the most delicious fries in town, along with some kind of tangy basil mayo for dipping -- sounds weird (not to mention un-American), tastes damn good. It's quickly become my go to hangover meal, though to be fair, it is harder to eat when my hangover's being aggravated by a drunken British ex-pat loudly singing along to Don McLean's "American Pie," which has happened at least once here.
The rest of the menu looks damn good, too, but honestly I've only passed on the chicken and chips once, and I instantly regretted it. So go forth and order those high-falutin' British chicken fingers, bros. Perhaps if you enter in numbers, you can even get them to switch off the soccer game in favor of a more palatable sport...after all, training camp is just around the corner.