Grace and Flavour: Honky Tonk

Off to Fulham to Honky Tonk in pursuit of Americana-themed sustenance: ribs, quesadillas, mini sliders and meatballs etc. The journey from East London to Fulham on a Friday night in winter feels perilous. This is the point in the capital’s calendar when the Tube is full of hot-faced women in diamanté shrugs clutching Secret Santa Sanctuary bath scrubs, and efficient gits with Selfridges bags and ‘Only one left to wrap’ expressions. Technically you’re not allowed to slap these people, the police warned me again last week. Traditionally my Christmas shopping begins in late December and until then consists of me entering Westfield Stratford once a week, treating myself to a Pret Xmas sandwich with stuffing, and a MAC lipstick, and then going home to watch Scrooged starring Bill Murray.

For an East Londoner, riding the No 14 bus up the Fulham Road feels like entering Narnia. The route to Honky Tonk is twinkly and brimming with yuletide cheer. I rather admire those jaundiced phlegmbuckets in dressing gowns smoking fags outside Chelsea and Westminster Hospital for their determination to sully the dream.

Honky Tonk consists of a long bar staffed by earnest ‘mixologists’ making a terrific fuss about bourbon, and a diner area. The theme claims to be blues, jazz and rockabilly, and the space is an adventurous blend of hand-drawn wallpaper, rescued swimming pool tiles, mismatched Ercol tables and chairs, and reclaimed Japanese fishing lights. I’m sure some people really like this but it put me in mind of Carlisle in 1992, when our headmaster came over all groovy and let us paint the sixth-form common room and call him Keith.

I had invited my friend Mark Wood, who runs the wonderful night Duckie in Vauxhall — a man who continually irks me by pulling on a hairpiece and smearing on some lippy and transforming himself into a more deluxe sort of female than me.

As we sat down at our table the most peculiar thing occurred. A practically nude waitress appeared. She was wearing the same kind of garb as those sad-faced Hooters waitresses: tiny shorts showing off her bum cheeks, bare legs, bare midriff and bare back (aside from a minuscule shirt), and bare thighs. ‘What would you like?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to know why your boss thinks it’s OK to make you dress like this,’ was my initial thought. Or: ‘I’d like you to consider why the men here aren’t working in underpants with their arse cheeks on display and are allowed to wear normal clothes like grown-ups doing a job.’

She took orders for two Dark and Stormies and I gazed around the room at the clientele: a female food critic eating with a gay man; a rock-hard Lebanese mother with her daughters; a table of blonde PR fillies; a few couples who had taken to blanking the waitresses; and some married couples where the wife had scrapped any idea of ordering chips and the husband was shoving a burger in his ear, distracted by the floorshow.

The food at Honky Tonk is perfectly nice, although the presentation is far from subtle. The meatballs looked like small pallid testicles floating in ketchup; the crab cakes were just that, no frills or garnish; the Welsh rarebit was a veritable doorstop of sweet brioche smothered in gloop atop a poached egg.

But the ‘Not’ fried chicken — three pieces of oven-baked chicken coated in Honky Tonk’s secret recipe — was excellent. Whatever the secret recipe is, I’d wager one could dip a flip-flop in it and make a tasty snack. The Honky Tonk Longhorn beefburger in a brioche bun with caramelised onions and homemade sauce was lovely. Not Honest Burgers lovely, but lovely all the same. But sadly, the hand-cut chips, instead of standing up proudly in their holder, were squishy and wilted. It was all sturdy and fairly delicious, but nothing to get het up about. We ordered a pretty-looking chocolate brownie with honeycomb flakes for pudding but could barely eat it. They added £13 service to our bill, which I’m hoping the waitress spent on a cardie.