Review 09: Bonjardim, Lisbon
If life is like a box of chocolates, Bonjardim is a selection box: you never quite know what flavour of service you're gonna get... but you'll keep coming back for that iconic rotisserie chicken.
The snack box is an institution of the Irish chipper. Where wallpaper-paste-battered paraphernalia runs the gamut from onions and burgers to sausages and giant round slices of potato (scallop, as we know ‘em) and fresh cod and smoked haddock still walk out the door, the likes of taco fries and kebabs have found more favour in recent times on chip shop light box menus. Cast your tastebuds back to simpler times of snack boxes. Has the childhood delight of a snack box begun to fade?
Small portions of chicken, craggily coated in heady seasoning, sat on-show on the counter, warmly winking at potential customers. The colour was probably different, depending on your local, varying in shades from faintly fawn to deep russety golden brown. The flimsy rectangular cardboard cartons they sit in always seem to go soggy; fresh-from-the-frier chips and chicken warmly wedged together in a steamy hug leaving the packing paper stained and drunk on the residual oil. The cartons were always a bit wonkily assembled; they never seemed to close right. But those skinny slivers, those peek-a-boo openings, that’s where the magic emanated. The aromatic whiff of salty-sweet-spiced-herby coating subtly sneaking out, filling the car as you made your way home.
It’s the seasoning. It’s some sort of saliva whisperer, coaxing a reaction from even the smell alone. That crowd-pleasing combination of salt, pepper, garlic, herb and spice that’s not too saccharine, not too piquant, delightfully salty and purely uniquely ‘Southern Fried’. But “fried” chicken is all about the coating, and more often than not the tastebud-tickling coating makes up for what the flesh can lack. Snack boxes wouldn’t be heralded as a prime place to find the juiciest or most tender chicken meat, nor is the chicken itself usually free-range or higher welfare.
But on holiday in Lisbon recently, the snack box revisited us like a divine apparition. The heavens opened, chiming in joyful chorus when the taste trigger clicked: the seasoning on the spit-roasted chickens served at Bonjardim, a side street off the tourist trap in central Lisbon, bears the unmistakable flavour of an Irish chip shop snack box. We’ve eaten here probably five times now, and on this most recent occasion it triggered the taste - and memories - of childhood snack boxes.
At Bonjardim, it seals the deal in familiar flavour without any of the cheating of a crisp, fried floury coating. This is spit-roasted chicken, skin-on, marinated (in what feels like a dry rub of Snack Box synchronicity) and skewered to slowly burnish as it turns dutifully over hot coals. It comes with skinny chips and a lip tingling Piri Piri chilli oil. The seasoning is cooked and set into the skin, which comes leopard-spotted, dappled in some gnarly dark bits and others more golden and pleasingly chewy, each piece caressed in smoke and tenderly benefitting from time spent slowly roasting.
Make no mistakes, this is no hidden gem. This place, on Travessa de Santo Antão, has been crowd pleasing since the Sixties, so Bonjardim is nothing new nor particularly groundbreaking. Those who recommend, ourselves included, certainly didn’t “discover” it. It’s well established enough to never suffer from obscurity, loved by locals and tourists alike. So, the basis of this business is not particularly remarkable yet how it does what it does is the remarkable feat. Since first recommending it ourselves about five or six years ago we’ve probably sent hundreds - *gulp* maybe thousands - of customers their way. Like clockwork, we still get tagged on socials several times weekly by people eating here, and on the most recent occasion we were even spotted in the queue by a couple who had just finished eating — on our very recommendation.
So why is it so special? The chicken smacks of salty, spiced bite, the seasoning teasing lips to go back in for another taste. Pucker and jaw clench in each rich, intense mouthful, swallowing with an urgent need for “more!”. The chicken - brined before slow roasting - is tender enough to pull away effortlessly and urge you to gnaw to the bone for every last bite. Eating this is an act of delicious devotion, the very definition of finger lickin’ –– and Nandos doesn’t even come close.
Skinny fries arrive a pale shade of anaemic, but are piping hot, and the kind that you’re glad aren’t shatteringly crisp, ‘cause they're soft enough to pierce tenderly and drag through the fatty poulet jus. Remember in old, old school restaurants where the servers used to clasp together a large spoon and fork and portion something like carrots or potatoes onto your plate? They still do that here, and it’s the most wonderful, silly little bit of table-side theatre.
The Piri Piri oil (peppers steeped in oil, rather than blitzed into a gloopy sauce) sits like a beacon on each table, looking harmless but bringing everything together in fiery bite, building slowly to crescendo. Glug on too much and you might go the way of Hades in the animated film Hercules, erupting from the head in a ball of red hot flames.
Naturally, a good value bottle of vinho verde is the ideal option here, and we always - without fail - wash it down with a bottle of Casal Garcia, shared via stubby little glasses. Cheap, cheerful and chilled, the right level of aromatics-meeting-minerality with bright salinity dancing with its innate effervescence. The house wine as old as the house itself, bottling since 1959 and now becoming far more increasingly available beyond the Portuguese shores.
This is terrace territory and al fresco is the only option, if you ask us. The choice of eating inside is always there, but why would one do that? Sure, you’re nearer the fat spitting of the ever-turning rotisserie, but the fun is all outside. Drink in the sloped, rickety tiled terrace with its metal tables appointed in disposable paper set over green gingham tablecloths. Watch the queue. Look how many come and go, and how many bewildered tourists gawk at what they’re missing. Each table turned around with military precision through the evening –– barely two minutes empty before the next assigned diners. Yes, the chairs will still be warm from the last inhabitants. “Have a warm seat,” the servers subconsciously communicate, with a wry wink.
Now, like “life”, Bonjardim is also like a box of chocolates… Service is a tale of two extremes. On one end: efficient, amenable, welcoming and even at times positively charming. At the other end: gruff, taciturn, sometimes sluggish and often insolent. No real grey area between. We’ve been grunted at, ignored and almost every occasion we’ve ordered things that never transpired (creamed spinach, salad, but nothing that’s never arrived has ever ended up on the bill, either). However, we’ve also been warmly welcomed, taken care of and tittered with the servers. Without fail, the chicken and chips are never forgotten.
The male servers, most salt ‘n’ pepper dappled and all of a certain vintage, have done this for years, day in, day out. They expertly navigate their own ropes, but also don’t suffer fools lightly. They’re not holding out a hand to you as you teeter along finding your way, it’s up to you to navigate yourself and lo the lay of the land. When the service is good it’s great, even warm and joyful, but when it’s not-so-great it’s the pits. Arrive here with the expectation that service won’t be the lasting impression.
You’ll keep coming back for the chicken, anyway. It’s a fact. It’s so beloved because it’s so good, and great service is a modern myth. You’re not there to be charmed, you’ve come to eat.
Rotisserie chicken with chips for two, plus a bottle of Casal Garcia cost €30.40. No website to share; See more in this reel on our Instagram…