![[PREVIEW] An Honest Burger / Honest Burgers / Brixton, London
Divisive. We’ll give it that.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ly9caubWy71qh62x4o1_1280.jpg)
[PREVIEW] An Honest Burger / Honest Burgers / Brixton, London
Divisive. We’ll give it that.
★[REVIEW] Gaucho / Smithfield’s / Challenging Chutney
It’s safe to say, Gaucho is not for the likes of us.
We are in Smithfield on a Friday lunchtime a few weeks before Christmas. We’ve tried two lunch venues already. We didn’t make enough of a plan. We stumble into Gaucho, fumbling around in the dark, bouncing off white pleather chairs and girls in Little Black Dresses.
The black mirrored surfaces, the waitresses dressed like Robert Palmer’s backing band, the all too self-aware cowhide chairs, the ambient funky house soundtrack. It’s the Hollister of steakhouses. It’s not our scene. Our backs are up as soon as we walk in. Gaucho used to think itself a Big Deal before the relatively recent London steakhouse revival. They are now everywhere.
After negotiating the razor thin menus and pissing off our secretary waitress by only ordering one course and no wine, we wonder whether Gaucho might trump our low expectations.
A good twenty minutes later, the burgers turn up and Rob is all like WTF.
They are presented open, but everything is in the burger - there’s no need to add condiments or anything.
Actually, there are no condiments to be seen. So why present it open? Perhaps to make the meagre specimen take up more space on the gargantuan plate it’s served on. It highlighted how pathetically small the burger was compared to the bun and, in Rob’s case, how skilled the chef is at putting a thick black layer of burn on the top side of his patty. It was got-too-engrossed-chatting-about-golf-at-the-barbecue burnt.
There are several heinous crimes being committed here. Let’s take a closer look:
Cheese
It looked and felt like something you’d get in a kid’s My Fisher Price Bistro set. Plastic that had been sprayed with cheese flavour. It didn’t melt. It just got a bit sweaty and uncomfortable. It’s called Dansglad cheddar. It’s either Danish, or has been invented by those Gaucho bastards since that’s all Google will tell us.
Chutney
Always a worry. Here, it’s been used as a relish replacement and apparently had chipotle in it. No noticeable smokiness to it, just unpleasant gagging sweetness that refuses to go away. In fact, we had to go to the excellent Dose Espresso across the market to get rid of the aftertaste.
The Meat
Four cuts! Four! All four that they have!
It makes it sound like they’ve scraped up the off-cuts from the kitchen floor. Unfortunately we can’t comment on its quality because it had not been seasoned at all, it had been burnt and our palates were devastated by the aforementioned chutney.
The big problem here is the apparent inability to cook. Any average piece of beef can be dressed up to look posher than it really is, so one can only imagine what they might do to a £30 ribeye.
The Price
Sixteen pounds. It would’ve been more worthwhile investing it in Northern Rock two years ago.
Gaucho is not cheap. This is right up there for London spendy burgers. Our bill overall came to £50, which included two flat diet Cokes, two small baskets of (admittedly quite nice) chips and service.
Our visit to Gaucho was penance for not being organised enough to book anywhere else in Smithfield’s on a Friday lunchtime, and you can’t help but feel it’s only there to serve the Torodean overflow from down the road.
Deplorable.
- Simon & Rob.
★[REVIEW] Bacon Cheeseburger / Joe Allen / London / Open vs. Closed
OK, as a precursor to this review, let me throw down some B/A burger theory for y’all. Burgers are usually served up in one of two ways:
- The ‘Open’ Burger
Whereby the lid of the bun is placed separately on the plate or partially resting on the edge of a burger, revealing the meaty innards and other contents. Occasionally the bun lid will be bare, occasionally it will play host to the salad elements of the burger, occasionally the ‘salad’ will be on the side of the plate, occasionally they will place it on the burger. Condiments may or may not be included. There appear to be no steadfast rules on this. Usually applied by restaurant burger offerings.
- The ‘Closed’ Burger
The bun lid is on top of the burger and all composite ingredients are already tucked in. For the most part, this is the method of the convenience burger industry. Now, the ‘Open’ method innately suggests that the burger is incomplete and that the eater will add his or her condiments, the salad items of his or her choosing, and close the bun content in the knowledge that personal preference has been satisfied in this area. But come on guys, this is real laziness. Some of the genuine joy of trying a new burger for me is seeing how the place has made it and what ingredients they have used.
A burger should be served as a whole and should be a product of the flavour choices the chef has chosen to combine into a good sandwich. Leaving the top open is close to heresy in this respect and is a major bugbear of mine.
Like, a restaurant wouldn’t serve a chicken and mushroom pie with the pasty top at the side and the chicken and mushroom in separate dishes so the diner can decide how the meat to veg ratio is best would they? No. Exactly.
So with that all off my chest, let’s move on to the Joe Allen Bacon Cheeseburger…
Everything about this burger is pretty good:
- the bun is a robust yet satisfyingly squidgy brioche
- the patty is thick with quality meat
- they don’t half fling a fuck-ton of nicely melted cheese on it.
But then we get to the ‘Open’ situation.
Two spears of pickle and a whole, thick slice of raw onion cosy up to the side of the burger for potential insertion. Ketchup and American mustard are requested. Everyone at the table sets about constructing their burger like kids eagerly making a space station out of lego: I add two of the larger rings of onion, both pickle spears and, using the tried and tested Meatwagon technique, I alternately lattice my ketchup and mustard onto the bun lid.
Then we eat.
Exclamations of how good the burger is bounce around the table, and yes, my burger tastes kinda great: the right sauce distribution, heavy on the pickle, relatively light on the onion. But then, it should taste how I like it. I CONSTRUCTED IT.
And this is the point I’m trying to make: I don’t want to know have a good idea of how the burger is going to taste, I want it to be a mystery. That’s why we love burgers so much, because each one can be unique even though the basics are essentially the same. So even though I enjoyed it, there was a slight pang of disappointment.
- Rob.
The Joe Allen burger is an off-menu “secret” item.
[LOVE LETTERS] An Ode to Denny’s
it even comes with the slight air of melancholy and everything
If there is one thing I absolutely HAVE to do whenever I visit the States (apart from driving straight to a liquor store to grab a case of Natty Light quick smart) it’s go to Denny’s, at least twice. I love Denny’s. Seriously. Like a first born or something.
Apparently it is considered low-brow dining by some Yanks. Pffft, whatever, snobs.
I can remember my first visit vividly. I was 10 years old, on holiday in Florida with my parents, and we were searching for somewhere to have pre-Disneyworld breakfast. Life was pretty sweet. Enticed by the huge yellow sign, plus the fact that it was close by and my sister and I were engaged in a mild fistfight at the time, my parents took us in.
The menu was a smorgasbord of awesomely named food. I ordered a BLT, having never heard of such a sandwich before (it was the early Nineties and I am still positive the concept hadn’t been introduced to the UK), and it blew my tiny British mind. I’d never had such crispy weird bacon on toasted bread with so much mayo and such big tomato slices. And it was cut into quarters. And each quarter had a toothpick with a flag in it holding it together. But wait, my dad has pancakes with his bacon and eggs? What. The. Fudge.
Suffice to say that Denny’s became a regular for the rest of that holiday, and for all of my subsequent trips out there: It was the staple 3am post-party chow-down whilst I was studying in West Virginia - I would literally eat plates of hash browns with hot sauce to soak up booze. I have consumed countless Grand Slams like a ritual, with a tall glass of milk and black coffee, to treat a hangover. I’ve sat drinking milk, watching people have All-You-Can-Eat Pancakes in Vegas, too fragile to consume food. I’ve even ended a 4th of July celebration in Hermosa Beach with one of their impossibly thick omelettes, at 4am.
Now, it might sound like most of my more recent experiences have been during/post-alcohol, and that’s probably right I guess. But I have visited sober as well, and the food still stands up. Their hash browns are honestly some of my favourite of anywhere I’ve eaten them in the US.
It’s cheap, it’s tasty, and it’s all you would expect an atypical American diner experience to be; it even comes with the slight air of melancholy and everything. I’m heading back over yonder this autumn with a friend who’s never even been to the States before, so can’t wait to take him and get him all Slammed up, with a Natty Light for dessert of course.
…and I’ll review their burger too…
- Rob.
[REVIEW] Harlem Drug Store / London / Home of the Big-but-Strange
How übertrendy is the name, right? It’s like it should be perched somewhere on Shoreditch High Street, Having crazy faux-Corner Shop sign outside, shabby-chic diner housed inside…
It’s not. And it doesn’t.
It’s clear that this place used to be something like a Thai restaurant – the sharp, dark wood interior, the neatly dressed tables - after doing minimal research, we were wrong, it was Malaysian. I’m guessing it’s still owned by the same people, who are now attempting to cash in on the success currently enjoyed by Byron et al.
To say we felt mildly disconcerted walking in would be fair, and the service that followed achieved the same feeling: the Diet Cokes we ordered came in wine glasses, and cost three pounds (Like, isn’t that what WINE by the glass costs?) The fries came in a tiny almond-shaped boat dish, probably used for side orders of vegetables in the previous incarnation. The ketchup and mustard came in soy sauce dishes.
The burgers we ordered were properly enormous, sizable hunks of meat. Sadly, the taste was as weird as the décor; the meat that soft, melt-in-the-mouth quality you want, but it was like it had been boiled instead of cooked on a grill. Kind of watery, it was in no way seared on the outside, giving it no texture.
The additions to the patty, what we thought were garlic and tarragon, were too overpowering and left a slightly undesirable after taste. And the bun (it’s like we’re ALWAYS going on about the buns) was just an oversized crusty bap which required some battling with the gnashers, with no real reward.
To give them their due, they clearly want to give customers a good burger eating experience. But they need to change a few things to make that happen:
- They need to buy a griddle first off, cos I’m pretty sure I saw the burgers being cooked in a frying pan – we were the only people in there, imagine trying to cook burgers that way with a full gaff.
- They need to deck the place out so it actually feels appropriate eating burgers ‘n steaks there.
In the meantime, I’d recommend going to the Betsey Trotwood next door and getting shitfaced instead. Sorry HDS.
- Rob.
Harlem Drug Store
Next to the Betsey Trotwood on Farringdon Road
London
[HOW TO] A Diner’s Guide (and Open Love Letter) to London’s Supper Clubs
…the social implications of just being there and meeting other diners creates a bonhomie that no typical restaurant experience can match
It’s been a short but delightful relationship so far. Having only heard of supper clubs whispered discreetly among those more in-the-know than I, it was October’s visit to Fernandez & Leluu that started it all off.
Tucked away on a secret Hackney side-street was their makeshift dining room. It was full of tables, plates, cutlery and character. We, being the first to arrive, scampered into the garden for some wine. As others turned up, exchanged knowing glances, we settled into a six hour gastronomic experience that was far superior to many of the more official eateries in recent memory. Since then we’ve attended F&L two more times and witnessed the founding of the excellent Trail of Our Bread (also in Hackney).
So after not really knowing what to expect, here’s a few tips if you’ve been thinking about signing up to the supper club experience:
1. It’s not a restaurant.
So don’t treat it like one. It’s someone’s house. Try not to break things, don’t expect fresh cutlery for each course, don’t expect each course to arrive with rapid fire precision. It’s highly unlikely anyone’s actually worked in a proper restaurant.
2. It’s really not a restaurant.
You’re not paying for a service from a business. You’re donating time and money to be part of a fun experiment. You’re the subject of someone’s passion. A supper club attendee has been chosen. Pre-selected. Almost vetted, really. So the social implications of just being there and meeting other diners creates a bonhomie that no typical restaurant experience can match.
3. Pay fair.
We’re British. Therefore we’re useless at dealing with, and asking for, money. On the off-chance you didn’t like the food, and even if you’re the sort of person who refuses to pay for things in restaurants, don’t dick the club out of its donation. Pay at least 10-20% over the suggested donation. Take plenty of cash with you, because if it’s really exceptional, then it’s still going to have cost you less than going to a restaurant.
4. Don’t be picky. Or flaky.
Well, to be more specific, if you’re the picky type, then supper clubs aren’t for you. We’ve had everything from frog’s legs to sashimi. Things that might make you go bleurgh. I’m one of those people that’ll try anything once, and my favourite menus are those that are just presented to me. I don’t know what’s best, I’ve not cooked it. If you can’t handle that as a concept, then you won’t enjoy yourself. But if you love the surprise of each dish arriving, you’ll have a brilliant time.
And for goodness sake, don’t cancel. Cancelling a reservation at a supper club is the baddest of bad form. Only cancel if you’ve lost a limb, or died. It hurts everyone else involved with the endeavour. Seating plans and portion sizes are the main victims, and they’re very carefully planned. If you’re taking a large group to a supper club then make sure none of your flaky mates are invited. It will reflect badly on you otherwise, and you’ll struggle to get another table.
5. Be nice.
Nicer than default restaurant mode. You can make friends at supper clubs. As previously mentioned, most of these folks haven’t had professional training. So compliment loudly and often. More than you’re used to doing. Ask for recipes, be specific about what you liked. Be honest about what could have been better.
But even more importantly than all that, remember that the geographic locations of these clubs is a secret. I’m no expert, but the legality of these clubs is dubious. So don’t add them to FourSquare.
6. Take plenty of booze.
It’s a long night. Don’t plan on having anywhere else to be. If you get out of there before midnight, you’re doing it wrong.
And pace yourself.
