Chicken doner @ Hot Chillis
36 Berry St, Liverpool, L1 4JQ
As the carcass of January drags itself across the finish line, the thoughts of many will turn, inevitably, to booze.
Those who’ve managed to remain abstemious for the past thirty days will find that a tremendous thirst has snuck up on them. The pubs, dives and wineries of the city will be filled with drinkers, packed shoulder-to-shoulder along bars, bursting out onto drizzly streets, making up lost ground.
I’ve not exactly been teetotal so far this month, but I’ll certainly be putting in the hard yards and throwing some weight behind a few pints myself.
And then, after ale; food. In town there’s no shortage of late-night options available. A battered sausage from the Lobster Pot; wings from Hot ’N’ Tender; even a fistful of spring rolls from China City (it is Lunar New Year after all).
The true choice of the beer-soaked connoisseur, however, is a kebab on Berry Street. And while the longstanding Botan has its adherents, at kicking-out time it’s Hot Chillis that most flock to.
Maybe it’s the obnoxious neons that draw the soused, sloshed and smashed — like so many moths to the bug zapper — from their unsteady perches on the steps of the bombed-out church opposite. Or maybe it’s the scent from the slow-spinning columns of marinated meat behind the counter.
Hot Chillis is a desi-style kebab shop, common enough as you go east along the M62 but a rarity in Liverpool. This means that as well as the usual shish and kofte, the menu here also offers South Asian snacks — samosas, bhajis, pakora — and curries. I’ve heard the Palak Gosht is very good, but when you’re half-cut only a doner will do.
Both the lamb and chicken are prepared in-house and perfectly juicy, but only the latter is tikka-spiced. Have all the salads. Yes, even the onion — now’s not the moment to be faint of heart. Dispense with the cardboardy pitta and ask for it on chips.
Owner and bossman extraordinaire Malak makes his own garlic and chilli sauces, which are powerful but thin. They’re ladled generously over the tray, drenching everything, including — if you’re not careful — your own hands as you eat. A fittingly moist end to Dry January.
