“We all like chicken.”
― Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X

Sometimes you just get a craving in your bones…for finger-lickin’, deep fried, calorie dense, proper American Southern food.

Then reality asserts itself rudely and you recall that you live in Britain, which is not wholly conducive to the getting of said food. This may or may not trigger a quick series of emotions (irritation, maudlin despair, angsty regret for what you have lost, etc. etc.) culminating in a tiny moment when you consider if the food grass is greener on the other side–of the Atlantic.

Then you remember that The Lockhart exists and calm down because everything is fine again; plus your existential alarm over food was a little unnerving, no?

It’s tucked away on a little side street, disconcertingly near Selfridges. The upstairs is almost Spartan with a hipster-appropriate exposed brick wall and genuine antiques, but downstairs is a slightly edgier (while still incredibly homey) space for larger parties and entertaining. As a rolicking party of two, we have always been seated up top, which bothers us not a bit. There are fresh flowers, mismatched furniture, constant refills…all the things that I like. Also, while always peopled, it is never crowded and we have never once had an issue getting, or wait for a table.

Full disclosure, we have only ever been to brunch here, but has been enough to earn our ringing endorsement. We do intend to try their other meals at some point, but in the meantime, they hold one fundamental reason for our Most Important Meal of the Day devotion:

Chicken and Waffles.

Although the cornbread cooked on order, served piping hot with bubbling butter, smothered and covered biscuits and gravy, shrimp and grits, pork belly and hash, and more are all worthy of honorable mention. If you happen to be in Marylebone and craving something deep fried, stroll over to Seymour Place and indulge. It’s what gyms are for.