We should discuss what Norbert’s is, which is a neighbourhood restaurant that has got a bit out of hand. There’s a handful of tables, for walk-ins only, a deliciously succinct menu, rotisserie chicken and two kinds of potato, and not much else. That’s it. But “that’s it” is sort of the essence of Norbert’s, and why my friend Joel and I (yes, we are both called Joel; yes, we get off on this an outsized amount) had both made the treacherous cross-Thames journey south to see it – legend of the place has spread far beyond the postcode it was meant to cosily serve when it first opened, nine months ago. As “all the sauces” (a Sunday-worthy chicken gravy, a delightfully crackly pepper-butter, aïoli with the umlaut and, simply, Frank’s RedHot sauce) hit our table, everyone in southeast London descends on the place at once, and we are suddenly surrounded by the right kind of bustle: a solo diner taking on a half-chicken in devout silence; a group of men with moustaches who started supporting Dulwich Hamlet two weeks ago; seven others who have seemingly never been to a restaurant before and want to start here, tonight, which is sweet of them, isn’t it?
