Belles Hot Chicken – Barangaroo
In the thick of the July 2023 heatwave I found myself road-tripping the American South, New Orleans to Alabama, looping through Louisiana and Mississippi, discovering the real thing. Soul food, smoked brisket, cornbread, shrimp and grits, crawfish, and, above all, fried chicken. Proper fried chicken. From the fryer, crust shattering under your teeth, steam rising from the meat, heat that doesn’t just sit on the surface but works its way in. And in Tennessee, of course, the purest expression of that idea: Nashville hot chicken. Spicy, oily, unapologetic, served with the usual Southern sides and a sauce that means business.
By the time I flew home I had a new devotion. Not the polite, Instagram-ready version of American comfort food, but the greasy, generous, slightly dangerous kind. So when I heard the story of Kiwi chef Morgan McGlone, fine-dining refugee who moved to Nashville, fell hard for the local hot chicken, and decided Sydney needed it, I felt a certain kinship. Thank Christ he followed through.
Barangaroo’s waterfront is thick with restaurants doing the refined thing: white tablecloths, careful plating, the soft murmur of people spending serious money. Belles sits among them like the mate who turns up in a stained T-shirt and orders another round. Casual, open, tables outside, the kind of place where after a couple of cold beers you can dig your hands into proper fried chicken without anyone raising an eyebrow. On a hot Sydney summer afternoon it felt exactly right.
We sat outside, ordered two cold ones, and went for the “sandwiches”, which are, let’s be honest, burgers in a milk bun. First up: the Hot Honey. Crispy chicken thigh tossed in a sticky, spicy-sweet honey glaze, lettuce, ranch, toasted bun. It arrives looking like trouble and delivers. That floury crust explodes with every bite, the heat and honey trading punches, the ranch cooling things just enough to keep you going. It’s messy. By the end your hands are glazed, your wrists sticky, and you don’t care. This is the one that makes the trip worthwhile.
The Supreme was a different story. Southern-style tenders, pickles, lettuce, mayo, same toasted milk bun. Perfectly competent. Juicy chicken, decent crunch, the classic American set-up. But after the Hot Honey it felt a little polite. A slightly more expensive version of something you’d get from the colonel, only this time the inspiration is Nashville rather than Kentucky. Fine if you’re playing it safe. Not the reason you come here.
Then the side arrived: mac and cheese balls. Three words. Oh my god. Salted crumb giving way to a sharp, properly cheesy centre that is both creamy and assertive. If you are the sort of person who will always order the mac and cheese, these are dangerous. Hot, rich, addictive. Pair them with a cold beer and the whole meal starts singing that low, satisfying comfort-food song.\
Belles has never pretended to be anything else. No kale, no calorie counts, no ginger shots. Just chicken that is crunchy rather than greasy, layers of seasoned flour that actually taste of something, and enough chilli to remind you you’re alive. The Nashville origin myth of the girlfriend who tried to punish her cheating boyfriend with ultra-spicy fried chicken, only for him to fall in love with it, feels entirely appropriate here. This is food with a bit of spite and a lot of pleasure in it. On a hot day, with a cold beer and sticky fingers, it does exactly what it should.
