by Henry VIII visits Nando’s and discovers a chicken restaurant with more procedural caution than most of his own trials
I once demanded absolute obedience from my entire court with a single raised eyebrow. The till at Nando’s asked me to confirm, twice, that I genuinely wanted extra hot, as though I were signing something legally binding.
The Card System
My companion Dev explained the card system before we sat down, a small plastic card placed flag-up on the table to summon a waiter, an arrangement I found genuinely elegant, having spent most of my original reign shouting across banqueting halls for service that arrived considerably slower and considerably more resentfully than anything Nando’s has ever produced.
The Spice Ladder
The menu listed five levels of heat, ascending from lemon and herb, which I regarded as an insult to the concept of flavour entirely, up to extra hot, which the waitress, a cheerful young woman named Priya, warned me about twice with the gravity of a physician discussing a genuinely risky procedure. I ordered extra hot regardless, on principle, having survived considerably worse at the negotiating table with France.
The Aftermath
The chicken itself was excellent. The aftermath was not. I spent a full twenty minutes in what I can only describe as spiritual crisis, drinking frozen yoghurt directly from the machine while Dev filmed the whole thing for what he called content, a word I still do not fully trust. Priya returned twice to check I was still alive, a level of aftercare I never once received from my own royal physicians following considerably more serious incidents.
The Halloumi Debate
A genuine debate broke out at the next table over whether halloumi pita counted as a proper meal or merely an appetiser pretending otherwise, and I found myself drawn into it uninvited, offering the view that any cheese capable of being grilled without melting deserves respect regardless of portion size. The table agreed. I have settled fewer disputes at actual council meetings with this much consensus.
The Verdict
I left with a bag of Nando’s sauce purchased entirely on impulse, a burnt tongue, and a genuine plan to return within the week, having concluded that a restaurant capable of humbling a man who once dissolved an entire religious order deserves considerably more respect than its plastic chairs currently suggest. Extra hot remains undefeated. I remain, provisionally, a fan.
The Return Visit
I have since returned twice more, working my way cautiously back down the spice ladder to medium, a retreat Priya witnessed with visible and entirely justified amusement. Dev has suggested filming the entire descent as a recurring bit, and I have agreed, mainly because Priya’s frozen yoghurt recommendation genuinely saved my evening the first time and deserves proper credit.
Priya still checks on me at every visit, and I have decided that is simply the correct way to be treated after ordering extra hot. This falls squarely under my diet plan, extra hot and all. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: the original account of my own return to Britain, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint, six pounds now apparently the going rate for a croissant on principle.
