Spatchcocked. Charred.
One bird, flattened so every inch hits the coal. Marinated in house piri piri, grilled until the skin blisters and the fat renders. The dish people kept coming back for — now all we do.
Cooked three times. On purpose.
Cut thick. Blanched, rested, then fried twice more. A glass-crisp shell, a fluffy middle, salted the second they leave the oil. The chip that earns its place next to the bird.
Cut thick, simmered soft.
Cooled till the surface sets.
Twice in hot oil — glass-crisp.
We lit the fire first.
Real charcoal, glowing before the doors open. The bird goes on only when the coals are right — never before.
Real charcoal, lit before we open.
Flattened flat so every inch chars.
Over coal until the skin blisters.
Piri piri on. Out the door, hot.
Fire
Real charcoal. Nothing fake, nothing shortcut.
Craft
Two things — chicken and chips — done obsessively.
Neighbourhood
Vasastan first. Delivered by us, not a platform.
Four things. Done right.
Real charcoal
Lit before we open. No gas, no shortcuts.
House piri piri
Chilli, garlic, smoked paprika. Made daily.
The bird
Spatchcocked, marinated, charred over coal.
Triple-cooked chips
Cooked three times. Crisp, fluffy, salted hot.
No Foodora. No Wolt. Just us.
We cook for the street, not the algorithm. You pay less, the food arrives better.
Hear first when we open.
300 neighbours within 800m, before the doors open. You'll get the address, the date, and the first Tuesday.