Let’s talk spit roasts. No, not the ones of a decade ago you saucy minxes, but those that I have now I am a lardy greying thirty-something year old. I am talking a juicy impaled bird, moist, with burnished skin and succulent flavour. And if your mind took you anywhere then other than chicken, then shame on you. I am here only to arouse you with food talk. You disgust me.
Rebel Chicken is the place that started life as Fowl Play, a rather catchy name until someone up north caught wind of foul play and forced them to change it. It is a slogan that still adorns the black outside wall in gloss against the matt bricks. Back inside and the upstairs restaurant has walls almost as distressed as I feel queuing for the singular toilet with my legs crossed. The room is pale blue and whites, light pouring through the large industrial windows befitting the buildings of these parts of town. It’s cosy and nice. Back outside and they have one of the city’s largest beer gardens. This is where we sit, with the sun blazing down on our faces with a cold beer and a smirk.
Now let’s get to the chicken, which if you stick to the rotisserie is really very good. Brined, steamed, stuck in a marinade overnight, and then impaled with a great big skewer up its arse and turned over cherry wood until the skin is crispy. It is a serious bit of chicken, not dry at all, the white meat almost as good as the brown. And that’s the thing with chicken; once you’ve gone brown, you’ll never go back around. Or something like that. The point is that it has flavour, loads of it. The technique is there and it pays off; it is a mile away from the usual rotisserie birds we are used to. And stump for the sauces whilst you’re at it, tightwad. The gravy is all thickened cooking juices, whilst the aioli packs a serious garlic punch.
Six months ago I would have been waxing lyrical about the wings, though now they suffer from serious competition. We try a platter of them in various sauces, which all get eaten somewhat less enthusiastically than the rotisserie bird. This isn’t a slight on them; they have a good amount of meat and taste as they should. It’s just the skin isn’t as crisp as I’d like and the wings could be better butchered. With a little detail they could be up there. And then there is the sides. Skip the chips that taste like they have come from a bag, order the sweet, blistered corn on the cob instead. And absolutely have the coleslaw sharpened with apple juice that goes perfectly well with the main event.
Eating here happens to have the plus point of being very affordable. A meal for two with a whole chicken, sweetcorn, two dips, and a couple of drinks will just about hit £30 between you. And I mention that precise order because it is the best way to enjoy Rebel Chicken. I can’t vouch for the buttermilk chicken burger, the wrap, or even the veggie burger, but I can tell you that if you stick to my advice you’ll leave full and happy. I applaud Rebel Chicken for sticking to one meat only, if they can bring the rest of the menu up to the same standard as the rotisserie they’ll have a mighty fine restaurant. But for now that spit roasted bird itself is reason to go.
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