😬 My Trip to Coyote Ugly Bottomless Brunch in Camden

🎁 Courtesy of my parents

Happy new year!

I hope you have had a restful festive season.

It’s a bank holiday here in the UK and I decided to write up one of my most profound experiences from the Christmas period.

This is not a tale of business or technology. It is a tale of a Christmas present that was so far off the mark, I still wonder if it was a joke at my expense.

I had to go, so you have to read about it. Buckle up!

My Trip to Coyote Ugly Bottomless Brunch in Camden

My name is Clark Boyd. 

I am 35 years old and I live in London. 

My favourite places in the city are Kew Gardens and the Royal Opera House. I drink sherry and fancy teas; I enjoy poetry and ballet; I am a keen cook.

I’m also autistic. My genteel pastimes are born of a deep discomfort in loud, dank places, as much as a desire to live a life more rarified.

Armed only with the above information, what would you buy me for Christmas?  

Maybe a book? How about some tea? Tickets to an opera?

All fine ideas. 

What would you absolutely not buy me for Christmas?

Ah ok, now you’re getting warmer. 

This Christmas, my parents bought me a voucher for a bottomless brunch at the Coyote Ugly Saloon in Camden. Take a moment to absorb that sentence. 

My parents have previous in the “literally not knowing the first thing about your children” gifting category. I flew them over to New York one Christmas when I was living there. I took them to The Nutcracker and the Russian Tea Rooms, then cooked up a festive turkey for the family. 

My gift in return? My mother wrapped up her Delta sleep mask from the flight over (used) and put it under the tree.

If the name ‘Coyote Ugly’ means nothing to you, I envy you.

The movie was released in the year 2000, the same year that ‘Me, Myself, & Irene’ hit our screens. ‘Kevin and Perry Go Large’ came out in 2000.

It would be equally inkeeping with today’s cultural zeitgeist to open a ‘Kevin and Perry’ restaurant as it would to open a new Coyote Ugly Saloon in London.

If that was the shot, here’s the chaser: they bought my sister the same gift, so we could go together.

Keen to start 2023 with a clean conscience, we hit the saloon last week with our respective partners. It was a fascinatingly bad, multi-sensory assault and I feel compelled to share it with you. 

The Coyote Ugly Brunch Experience

1.59pm 

We arrive promptly for our 2pm reservation, knowing all too well that not a second can go to waste at a bottomless brunch. I have a delicate constitution and I hate to drink too fast, but the mere mention of “all-you-can-drink” awakens my inner Irishman. 

Once the clock starts, we have 90 minutes. I’m leaving this place on a stretcher. 

That clock won’t start anytime soon though, because there is no-one to greet us. We amble on in, past some bemused tourists and solo men in puffer jackets, and seat ourselves at a table. 

The table is sticky and it’s best not to consider why. As we will soon learn, it is impossible to get a drink or some food in here, so neither of those can be the source. 

Oh, ok then

The bar’s mood is predictably inky and the music is so loud I almost can’t hear myself think. Unfortunately for my own psychological wellbeing, some thoughts do still break through the dense sound barrier of wretched country music. 

The layout of the bar can best be described as a galley, while its furnishings could be found in an unnerving alley. On one side, the bar has its hideous ‘COYOTE UGLY’ sign; on the other, a series of booths from which the patrons can ogle said bar. 

2.18pm 

We are still waiting to be greeted. We start to count the staff and we think there are four. There are about 100 customers in here and while I’m no hospitality pro, that ratio seems off. Especially when the staff are expected to multitask: pour drinks, gyrate, serve food, sing, and dance. 

According to Google, this place will only get busier as the day progresses. We will be here to watch the day progress. 

2.21pm

After some bureaucratic hassle over the name on our discount voucher, we’re ready to brunch! We are assigned a coyote and she asks one of our party what they are drinking. Their answer is “prosecco” and that means we’re getting four proseccos.

The other options are Budweiser and mimosa, so we’ll make do with the ‘secco anyway. 

It’s potable and that’s all you can ask at a bottomless brunch. Well, you could also ask for some top-ups, but let’s at least give them that the prosecco is on-par, quality-wise, with other low-end all-inclusive brunches.

We still don’t have brunch menus but we are assured they will arrive soon. They won’t.

Incidentally, it is impossible to flag down a coyote that has been assigned to another table. I don’t know where they learned to be this assiduously ignorant of customer needs (France, presumably), but you have to hand it to them. This is tunnel vision turned into performance art. 

2.29pm

Still no menus and I’ve given up on talking above this obnoxious music. I might as well have given up on drinking too, because my glass remains as empty as my spirits. 

We should take a moment to consider what this place is even supposed to achieve. The idea with the ‘Coyote Ugly’ movie is as simple as it is repellent.

The plot is based on the experiences of Elizabeth Gilbert, who wrote a piece for GQ in 1997 that caught the imagination of some Hollywood types. The subsequent movie was “critically panned, but popular at the box office” (that’s Wikipedia’s take) and I did not see it.

The real Coyote Ugly Saloon was in Manhattan’s East Village and it was notorious for its loud, dank ambience. In Gilbert’s article, she writes that the (almost exclusively) male clientele would routinely fall in love with the bar’s (entirely exclusively) female staff. She calls this “pretty much the whole point of the place.”

The fast-talking waitresses would dance on the bar, sing country songs, and pour jugs of water on their shirts. Yes, that’s what my parents intended to send me to, as a Christmas gift. 

In fact, the water on the shirts was the only agua permitted in that joint. My research reveals that this chant goes up in the bar in the movie:

“HELL NO H2O”

Their jukebox was dominated by Hank Williams’ back-catalogue and the dresscode seemed to encourage leather. Hank ‘n’ dank, that was the coyote way.

Gilbert continues, in a phrase that revolts me so much we could call it ‘Clark Boyd kryptonite’:

If you had come into the Coyote Ugly Saloon when I was bartending and asked me for a martini, I would have poured you a shot of Jack Daniel’s, and I would have said, “That’s how we make martinis in this place, pal.”

Did I mention that I’m a sherry drinker?

In fact, Gilbert also reflects on an interaction she had with her boss at the end of her first shift. She heard that there was one key lesson to learn:

“Get those drinks out, and get them fast.” 

My glass is still empty. 

2.30pm 

When one opens a saloon like this, there is only one probing question to answer:

Does one hire great dancers that can waitress a little, or great waitresses that can dance a little? 

It’s a riddle that has perplexed proprietors for millennia. 

At Coyote Ugly, they sidestep the whole conundrum.

Are they waitresses or dancers? How about neither?

It’s 2.30pm and we are treated to our first bartop dance. The coyote is approaching the task with a lacklustre enthusiasm I haven’t seen since Barney Gumble went up for sale at a charity auction:

I would like to place on record early and with heartfelt clarity: I do not blame the coyotes. 

It’s early afternoon in Camden, late in December. The weather is miserable and so are the clientele. Whatever the opposite of atmosphere is, this place has it. Not even Ginger Rogers could bring some oomph to a routine in here. 

2.42pm 

We get our second glass of prosecco and some menus! 

There are three columns on the menu: Waffles, Bagels, Burgers. Our coyote says we can order one from each column and we are left to deduce that this is not the case. I was excited for a waffle-topped beefburger in a bagel bun, too. It turns out, we can have one item from the whole menu. 

2.51pm 

You know how in Vegas casinos, they dim the lights and they don’t have clocks? They do everything to lull you into this time-that-exists-outside-time, so you just stay there and keep on spending.

Coyote Ugly has that same vibe, except for two major flaws:

• 1. You make sure to notice the time, because you can’t get your hands on a drink for love nor money.

• 2. And I can’t believe I’m saying this: They don’t have toilets. You have to go to the public toilets in Camden Market and queue up. 

It was while I was in the queue that I got chatting to a lady from the table beside us. We traded criticisms on everything from the noise to the service, then I noticed the text she had just sent on her phone. 

It said:

“I am having a terrible time”

You and me both, sister. 

3.02pm 

Our coyote returns and we order some food. I choose the cheeseburger and I am concerned for many reasons. One of these is that the menu says “with your choice of cheese” and it is so loud in here, I dread the thought of having to bellow my selection. 

Will I go for gruyère? Some smoked gouda would be good, but it’s hard to enunciate that at the required pitch and volume in here. 

I point at “Cheeseburger” and she asks no questions. Phew.

Wait, where is the kitchen? Do they have a kitchen? Are the coyotes the chefs, too?

3.18pm 

We’re getting worried now. We weren’t greeted until 2.20pm, but our reservation was for 2pm. Will they cut us off at 3.30pm?

We can’t get any service, so we head to the bar to try our luck. 

3.28pm

After some deliberation, our coyote decides we can’t just have a bottle of prosecco. We’ll have to make do with the “service” at Coyote Ugly, where the customer is invisible. 

We’re onto glass numero three. No sign of the food, so it looks like we’re here for a while yet.

3.37pm 

Now the tables are talking to each other. The birthday party beside us asks if we have received our food, or even any drinks, and they’re as underserved as we are. 

The birthday girl points to the ‘COYOTE UGLY’ letters and highlights something I hadn’t noticed:

“The f*cking C doesn’t even light up”

‘OYOTE UGLY’

3.53pm 

Back to the bar and we manage to coax a coyote down from the stage to serve us another prosecco. 

I start to think: 

Maybe this is just who I am now. I am just some man that exists in Coyote Ugly, sitting in this booth, waiting for brunch. It’s been almost two hours now and there is no sign that this will end. 

4.17pm 

The table beside us is served half their food.

4.29pm 

The table beside us receives their cutlery. 

4.37pm 

Brunch is served! And it is going to test my communicative skills to the limit. 

Our coyote looks at me and says, “You don’t need cutlery”. 

No. Perhaps a bin, though? Maybe I will need that stretcher, after all.

We’ll start with the basics: this is the worst piece of food I have ever seen.

The burger is hard — slightly rubbery —  it is ice cold, and it has a taste I have only experienced at a leisure centre cafe. These are the frozen burgers they make at the very worst burger vans, and yet they are infinitely worse than those. 

Our later research will reveal a link between this bar and another Coyote Ugly in Liverpool. This gives rise to the suspicion that the burger was microwaved in Liverpool, yesterday, then sent down here on a steam-powered ferry. You think I’m exaggerating but I assure you, there’s a story behind this meal. 

I can only bring myself to rip a corner off the patty, but my intrepid fiancée takes a whole bite:

Here’s a closer look at the offending item:

My sister will later look up the saloon’s hygiene rating:

I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when the inspector came here. I wouldn’t have been the only one. 

To get a hygiene score of 1, a restaurant must have between 45 and 49 violations. The score does not even take into account the quality of food or the service. 

Unfortunately for Coyote Ugly, my score is based on precisely those criteria. 

4.56pm 

Our coyote is absolutely, positively, understandably trashed. It’s the first connection I’ve felt with anyone in this place and it reveals her humanity. They know it’s bad here, too!

We get one last prosecco for the road, bringing us to a paltry total of five. 

After three hours, five proseccos, and one of the worst times available in London, we’re outta there.

Epilogue

I went to Coyote Ugly terrified that it would deliver on its promise. Instead, we left disappointed that it didn’t even clear that low bar. The service is non-existent, the food is borderline criminal, and they don’t have a toilet. 

The original Coyote Ugly was “Fun” in that capital “F” definition of the word that bludgeons the rest of us into submission. Coyote Ugly is Fun and if you don’t like it, lighten up. It’s dark, it’s loud, and that’s why it’s “good”.

It operated with a laissez-stare philosophy. Come along, bring your friends, look at the dancers all you like and they’ll keep the drinks flowing. Just tip them well and don’t expect them to take any crap. 

Some morally bankrupt bar owners continue to see an opportunity in this business model, decades after the movie joined parachute pants on our collective cultural scrapheap. 

If dark and dank is the charm, these owners ponder, why pay for decent facilities? 

Except, they skimp on everything else that made people like the original. 

Want a drink? Swivel. 

You ordered your food two hours ago? Go tell someone who cares. 

I still have no idea where the kitchen is.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mike Ashley was behind it all. It really is the Sports Direct version of bottomless brunch. 

I never thought I’d say this but I think you’d have a better time watching the movie. It has 27% on Rotten Tomatoes. Better that than a 100% rotten lunch. 

Clark’s Brunch Rating: Zero spoons (Out of a possible five spoons)