[REVIEW] The Gun Beef Shin Burger / The Gun / Docklands, London
“the amount of time you spend looking at the O2 from that deck makes you wonder why the hell it still exists…”
We’d heard good things about the Gun, but we could not for the life of us remember who had recommended it, or to whom.
- Had it come to us in a dream?
- Had some cunning incognito Gunner Derren Brown’d us?
Who knows. Regardless, it had ended up on The List, so try it we must.
On any other day we would have laughed off the notion of having to negotiate Docklands, but we had time to kill before the latest Statham flick1 was due to start in the O2 so we headed over to check it out.
This is a really pretty pub - shiny dark wood surfaces gleam at you and finely upholstered leather bar stools and Chesterfields abound. There are lots of suitably on-brand firearms scattered about too. They have Bitburger on tap, an instant fave. And it has a huge riverside deck with an enviable view of the Thames and the O2, if you like that kind of thing. Actually, the amount of time you spend looking at the O2 from that deck makes you wonder why the hell it still exists, and why they don’t seem to be able to clean it properly.
We sat out on that deck all on our own. In the damp cold like bloody idiots with our coats firmly done up. However, the result of all this is threefold:
- It is PRICEY.
- It is FULL of loud, gussied-up Canary Wharfers.
- It is nowhere near anything. Like NOTHING.
It’s as if a drunk millionaire dumped a really nice mews by the river one night, then woke up in the morning forgetting where’d he put it. To their credit they do provide a free cab service to and from the pub on weekday lunchtimes if you book a table beforehand. And frankly, they need to, because how the fuck else are people going to get there?
The Gun burger came out looking monumental; a huge tower of impressive looking ingredients surrounding a stout lump of beef. Banging the bun lid on it looked tricky as hell to cut through, let alone take a bite out of. Then we spotted that this was the first burger we’d seen that attempted the ‘Double Onion’. Daring.
The bottom layer of onion had been broiled in a broth; soft with a thick, savoury taste comparable to proper slider onions. The onion rings looked good upon arrival, but atomised into nothing once in the sandwich. Unrecognisable in any mouthful, making them sadly redundant. It was like they just disappeared. A good concept we’d like to see more of, but the execution was inconclusive. The cheese was melted surprisingly well considering its in-keeping properness, with a hint of sharp aftertaste that was just right.
Having bigged up the shin on the menu, the beef was a real anticlimax. Again veering into ‘mixed’ patty territory: we could see the herbs and taste the white wine they’d added to the meat, destroying any original flavour. A ragu in patty form before you’ve chucked the tomato in. It was chewy and it tasted like wine. It may as well have been a veggie burger for all the beefiness we could taste.
Despite the hit and miss contents, the bun was epic. A squishy, light-but-chewy marvel that couldn’t save the burger, but was really impressive considering.
We also tried a sausage roll and scotch egg which, whilst nicely cooked and spicy, were both pretty tiny and WAY too expensive for what we got. We gloss over these to talk more about the Macaroni Cheese we also ordered - wherever possible we try and see the good in all the stuff we eat.
But not this time, this was really fucking shit.
A flavourless, overcooked pasta mixed into an unseasoned bechamel sauce, a light smattering of a very mild white cheese, all grilled for an instant. That’s it. A horrible, offensive six English pounds of bland. We can only imagine this comes from a reluctant chef shuffling out a conciliatory nod to the Mac ‘n Cheese craving masses. But really, dude, have some pride. You cannot charge six pounds for this. It made us concerned for the rest of the menu.
So on the whole, The Gun is a real 50/50 experience. Great views, great beer vs. some apparent lazy cooking with the occasional glimmer of competence.
We imagine that come the summer, a leisurely trip to The Gun to sit outside and lap up the rays and the sound of the Thames on a nice quiet weekday afternoon would be grand.
But make sure your wallet be bulging, and your ‘yahs’ be plentiful.
- Rob & Simon.
-
It was mostly incoherent, but well-shot and the Stath killed lots of people. ↩
[IN-N-OUT DIARIES] Part 2 - On Roadtrips and Arizona meat law
I thought they liked their meat. They must all hate freedom or something.
During a few days in Las Vegas, part of a US West Coast road trip last year, Irish Paul who had never been to the States before suggested that he’d like to see the Grand Canyon. We Gmapped it and realised it was quite a ways, but fuck it, we could do it in a day. We’d been driving about that distance between stops anyway, so we’d get up early and take the trip. Why not?
What we had not bet on were the Vegassian antics we’d have that night (about the only thing we didn’t bet on), which put the right kibosh on being up with the desert sparrows. Eventually we staggered to the car about 11am. We’d had no breakfast, so we thought In-N-Out would be a great mid-journey stop on our epic quest to see a hole in the earth. Incomprehensively, the trip had been devoid of In-N-Out thus far (I think I was saving it up as some momentous fast-food epiphany for my compadre) so were both well up for it. Enormo-Coffees safely in cup holders, we embarked.
45 minutes later, both of us were wishing we’d stopped at the one we’d passed in Henderson earlier into the drive, we were fucking starving. But a deal’s a deal. And there were some Goldfish in the glovebox, score!
After two hours or so we arrived at Kingman, Arizona, peeled ourselves out of the car and into the restaurant. The familiarity of the surroundings, the smell, and the menu instantly made me feel like I’d never been away. As always, there was a queue so we joined the back. My buddy kept prompting me to offer suggestions about what he should order, but I insisted that his first experience should be pure, and no way was I listing the whole secret menu at him, I was hungover.
With this In-N-Out being on Route 66, it probably gets a large amount of transient custom. Or at least I presumed it did, as every person in line seemed to be a noob and was asking what came in the burgers, and what ‘Spread’ was (I heard the girl at the counter say ‘it’s a bit like Thousand Island dressing’ at least six times). This was a lot of people’s first experience of In-N-Out, the lucky bastards.
I ordered a Double Double Animal Style with chopped chilis cooked medium. Sadly, I was told that State law in Arizona meant that they could only cook the patties well done. Let’s blame the Republicans. I thought they liked their meat. They must all hate freedom or something.
The quality and standard of what In-N-Out do state-to-state is impeccable. Clearly part of their slow-but-steady expansion plan is attention to detail and the training of their staff, because my burger looked uncannily like every one I’d had before, neatly wrapped in its little paper blanket.
And the taste was of equal similarity and quality, with the cheesy, oniony, Spread-heavy mesh being every bit as awesome as in previous encounters. Distributed well over the burger, the chopped chilis added a fresh, bare and raw heat to every bite, and paired with the creamy Spread the combination worked a treat.
About an hour before sunset, we finally got to the Grand Canyon where, with us dressed thoroughly inappropriately in shorts and t-shirt, it relentlessly pissed it down. When the rain finally stopped, we ran out and got some cracking sunset snaps. Then got back into the car and did the whole fucking 4+ hour journey again. But was it worth it? Of course it was. Have you seen it, that hole is bloody MASSIVE.
N.B. NEVER attempt Vegas to the Canyon and back in a day unless you:
- Get up ridiculously early
- Are optimistic mentals like us
- Stop for In-N-Out in Arizona.
- And Henderson.
- Take a helicopter tour.
- Rob.
Previously…
[REVIEW] Lucky Seven / Westbourne Park, London
“Unfortunately it felt like they couldn’t wait for us to get out of there…”
We’ve all got at least one - a place you want to go to, but it strays wildly from home or work.
Not on the way to anywhere. Places that have no other discernable reason for you to go to, places that you know there’s something you want to try there, but is such a herculean effort you may as well just stay at home and have a jacket potato.
Well, for us, this has been Lucky Seven in Westbourne Grove
Nestled innocuously, almost anonymously, in a small parade of shops and restaurants in Westbourne Park, you’d be forgiven for missing it. It’s pretty small - inside it only has 6 booths, so in busy periods they operate a booth share policy. Like Wagamama, but way cosier.
Walking in instantly brings a nostalgic diner atmosphere. It feels like a lilliputian small diner in Middle-of-Nowheresville, USA. They even have stick-on black and white lettering boards above the open kitchen. Score! And hip-lite fave PBR is on the menu (as “Blue Ribbon”). Oh wait, the waiter didn’t even know what we’re trying to order.
“Pee Bee Ahhhh?” he murmurs. Something tells us that hasn’t been in stock for a while.
Our Cheeseburger (with American) and Bacon Cheeseburger (with Monterey Jack) came out served open, and uncondimented with veggies on the side, which made the kitchen crime that had been committed all the more blatant.
We don’t think they should have sent a burger out in that sort of state, especially with no attempt to conceal the crime.
First rule of Cheeseburger Club is: you never grill processed cheese.
Second rule of Cheeseburger Club is: YOU NEVER GRILL PROCESSED CHEESE.
It fucking burns it - creating a tough plasticky crust that makes it really sticky and thoroughly unpleasant when it bonds itself to the roof of your mouth. Really not fun.
Saying that, the fairly chunky pre-salted patty was adequately cooked, with a cracking dark-pink medium centre, and the bun was a pretty neat, bouncy brioche. Once we’d added our desired veggies and sauces (the setback of every ‘open’ burger), the result was a relatively decent sandwich, and a good looking one too.
The Bacon Cheese definitely edged it here, with the bacon adding a salty depth to the seasoning that the cheeseburger lacked, and the jack having a better melty texture to it. Go with the jack here, you’ll thank us, seriously.
As for sides - the onion rings fared pretty well, they were chunky and the batter wasn’t greasy, although there was rather too much of it, resulting in a rather doughy middle. The chilli was a real disappointment though, being both bland, cold and having none of its alleged trademark spice. There’s more kick in a bowl of rice pudding. And there were loads of beans in it. Seriously, like way over the regular bean-to-meat ratio. Pretty uncool.
We don’t normally comment much about service unless it’s noticeably good or bad, but at Lucky 7 it’s very odd. We happened to be there at the same time as Nick from Hamburger Me and Jonathan Dale from off the telly so we all teamed up. On reflection, Nick’s order played up to L7’s strengths more than ours.
Anyway, there we were, on a weekday evening and the place isn’t busy. Not only do we appreciate what they’re trying to do, but were very susceptible to more booze. Unfortunately it felt like they couldn’t wait for us to get out of there, and the restaurant was half full the entire time. No upsells. We had to keep asking for fresh beers. Weird.
It was a satisfyingly standard burger. If you happen to be marooned in the deepest, darkest depths of West London then we can quietly recommend it.
- Simon & Rob.
[REVIEW] Ribs, Pulled Pork Sliders and Burgers / Duke’s Brew and Que / Haggerston, London
We wanted a huge bowl of the pulled pork
From the outside, Dukes Brew and Que wouldn’t look out of place in an episode of Jeeves & Wooster, squeezed between a building wrapped in scaffolding and a council estate in Hackney-but-still-the-rough-bit Haggerston. The juxtaposition is evident inside as a throng of well dressed 9-to-5ers mob the bar, leaving the local drunk looking bewildered. Poor bloke, he only wants a pint of fucking bitter. Later, when he bowls up to bar for another scoop, the front of house will try and give his tiny table by the window away to a trendy young couple, and he will not be best pleased.
That’s the thing - it is a boozer, with most of the crowd queuing at the bar for one of the impressive selection of beers here solely for that reason (our pale ale loving compadre was ecstatic). But it’s also a restaurant. An arguably good balance. And yet, we are still a bit disconcerted since the FOH lady chooses to ignore us and we find our pre-booked table on our own and wait a good ten minutes before the waitress decides to give us the time of day. In short, it looks like a pub, but it’s definitely a restaurant. Not much space for those just there for the sauce.
The menu is a bit odd for somewhere touting itself as a barbecue place - there is a lot of steak going on, and a burger. And the only pulled pork available is housed within in ‘sliders’. They’ve also committed the cardinal “mission statement” sin as you can see from the picture above.
We ordered everything vaguely barbecue, and a burger.
Let’s start with that burger. The patty was thick, moist and packed a distinctly barbecue flavour, almost as if it had been smoked itself, which was quite novel. The sauce with it was fresh and spicy sweet, and the bun did a stand up job housing the lot. Yep, it was a barbecue burger, of sorts, and whilst not mind-blowing, it wasn’t bad. It did taste a bit like a frankfurter though, which some of you might find some disconcerting.
On to the ribs. The pork were pleasingly big, pink and chewy. The beef ribs were heavier on the gristle and didn’t quite have enough fat to keep them as palatable, or enough sauce to keep them moist.
Both of them however were criminally sweet, and we have a theory about it. Duke’s clearly have some kind of Memphis-style house rub they’re applying to all their ribs, be they cow or pig. We think that once they’ve been smoked, they’re re-dunked into the rub and flash-grilled so the sugar caramelises just before they’re sent out. Now, this is a problem. The dark sugary bark does indeed look really good, but there is an overwhelming caramel taste and smell to both types of rib.
Worse than that, the flash-nature of that grilling means you get the odd grain of sugar stuck between your teeth, which gives it that shuddering granulated sugar crunch that is far from pleasant. We’re fine with sweetness in ‘cue, but the sugar itself should not be identifiable by texture.
Gross.
All is not lost though. The best thing by a country fried mile were the pulled pork sliders - dinky little gems of moist pulled pork topped with a zingy slaw, served in a brilliant dinky brioche bun. We all agreed a big daddy version of one of these would have been epic. Unfortunately, the fact that you only get three of them in a mains serving is ultimately too stingy.
We wanted a huge bowl of the pulled pork and it’s just not an option on the menu.
The sides were fine, the only disappointment being the mac ‘n cheese. The pasta was topped with lots of rubbery grilled cheese without any real evidence of a proper cheese sauce. Macaroni with cheese if you will. Amateurish.
They’ve clearly done their USA BBQ research too, they’ve got the rolls of greaseproof paper right, but the menu feels focus-grouped to death (steak, steak, steak). Duke’s guys - do what you know you can do.
Duke’s is going to draw inevitable comparisons with Pitt Cue Co (which we will be reviewing soon): everything is served similarly, on similar trays, with a similar slaw side, with that familiar New/Old Filament Lightbulb Aesthetic.
But we’re not going to bother - the subtlety and complexity of Pitt Cue’s flavours, crossed with its significantly lower cost and more convenient location really doesn’t warrant one.
- Rob & Simon.
[REVIEW] Childhood Memories / TGI Friday’s / Stratford, London
“The burger bun is actually pretty good…”
We’re sure a lot of you have fond memories of TGI Friday’s from your youth. Even though you probably won’t admit it in public.
We certainly do. To us it was a place of magical wonder, full of bright, garish awesomeness. The staff were always effervescent, covered in their own quirky, idiosyncratic collage of badges (Rob’s pretty sure he was once served by one waitress wearing roller skates). The bar was always a hive of excitable chatter, bottles being juggled about with skilful abandon by Tom Cruise-esque bartenders. They had an uncanny knack of gluing things to the walls: guitar, baseball bats, American football helmets. It was the equivalent of Disney World in a restaurant.
The food? Man, neither of us can remember much about that, both having only soft-focus memories of steaks and sundaes. That, and it being a family friendly environment for one’s Dad to get drunk.
Neither of us have been there in decades, so it was with wide-eyed expectation of a truly amazing experience that we headed to their newest London booth in Westfield Stratford.
We weren’t disappointed. The place is massive! One of the booths is IN a New York Yellow Cab! Ridiculous!
Seated at our heavily spot-lit table, it felt like being in Las Vegas - with the ever so slightly too loud American pop tunes, the air con pumping out at constant speed, the floor-to-ceiling displays of Americana. We looked around dumbstruck. Maybe, just maybe this was going to be amazing!
We were brought down to Earth with a Deep Impact style bump. The prices seemed steep and the portion sizes were criminally small, something all too apparent when the starters of bone-in and boneless Buffalo wings, plus Chicken Fajita Nachos, turned up. “WTFs” reverberated, looking at the dozen or so nachos sparsely arranged on the huge plate in front of us.
Only a couple of tiny pieces of chicken were immediately discernable, and not many more after that. They were average at best and no one rushed to finish them. Both types of wings were bolstered by the liberal use of Frank’s on them, the boneless options having the same consistency as KFC popcorn chicken with glandular issues. But again, for the price and ‘sharing platter’ status, there just wasn’t enough of them.
As you can imagine by this point, we were not all that hopeful about the delectability of the mains that followed: a ‘Classic American’ burger with cheese and some Sizzling Blackened Chicken & Steak Fajitas.
The burger bun is actually pretty good, a ‘classic’ American Wonderbread / McDonald’s-style one - smooth, spongy, outrageously sweet and competently toasted. The special sauce is also a respectable mustardy thousand island-style effort.
It’s also worth saying that the thing smells incredible. Like it’s taken a bath in that weird Flame Grilled flavouring they use at Burger King. It can’t be natural.
The shortcomings are very visually apparent, and abhorrently unacceptable.
The patty is way too small for the bun, comically so, like a toddler trying to walk around in grown up shoes. We popped open the lid and saw a grey excuse for a patty that was overcooked, dry, and so densely packed that on biting it really didn’t feel like meat at all. But it tasted like meat, in that way chemicals make it taste like meat.
It was bad. Pretty fucking bad. And they have the nerve to advertise them as ‘juicy’.
On to the fajitas. Ever hopeful. Nobody does proper TexMex fajitas in London, despite what they try to say in the papers.
While the spicy seasoning that coated the peppers and onions was passable, it was the meat again that was flawed. The steak was a brown leather apology: dry, overcooked so it was like chewing a gristle fruit gum. The chicken tasted like those Birds Eye Chargrills, pumped full of water and reconstituted to shit. Even the chargrill taste was clearly synthetic.
You have never seen such a despondent bunch of lightly sozzled diners, the disappointment being all too sobering despite the plethora of icy booze we had thrown down ourselves.
For an establishment that advertises itself as the home of ‘fresh from the grill’ dishes, all of the meat here is severely lacking. Sadly, it is an all too common experience amongst chains that almost feel as if they have superseded the need to draw people in, so wide is their established consumer base. What is saddest of all is that this type of thing constitutes a decent meal for most people. A treat, even.
As a point of contrast, Rob had a stupendous three course lunch at Gauthier two days prior which came in three whole pounds under his share for TGI Friday’s. This only added further upset to the bill arriving.
There are 900 TGI Friday’s around the world. The company line is they serve the same thing globally. We would obviously never waste a meal in the US at one for the sake of comparison, but we have a hunch the portions wouldn’t be so dismal over there.
If only the Cheesecake Factory would come over instead, with its impossibly-priced bible menu. We can still hope.
- Rob & Simon.
[REVIEW] Theatreland Smackdown / Mishkin’s vs. Opera Tavern / Covent Garden, London
With the Opera Tavern still burning a hole in our burger To Do list, we thought it time to get around to sampling the high ranking Ibérico Pork and Foie Gras Burger. Unable to get through during the day and book over the blower, we thought we’d chance it. On a Friday night. Smart, right?
When we got there though, we were met with the predictably sharp intake of breath from the maître d’ and an hour long wait for a couple of seats at the bar. So what to do in the meantime? Well, Mishkin’s is right next door, so why not go and try the burger they were sold out of last time?
They have two stools at the bar free in the corner. Plan.
We set about some boss gin cocktails - one of which is brilliant because it’s served in a Tesco’s Finest jam jar.
We order a couple of 3oz steamed beef patties with onions & Swiss cheese. What promptly arrived was a half-size burger glistening with steam. Looking closer, it was clear - it’s a slider. It’s an actual fucking slider! None of this meatball in a bun bullshit. The patty had been cooked on the onions and then cheese added.
We’re ecstatic.
The patty was spot on medium, and juicy as hell, the flavour from the onions penetrating into the meat creating a really succulently rich onion gravy. The Swiss was TV advert stretchy, gooey, and popped a little cheesy nuttiness in. The bun was warm and pillow-soft from being steamed. Every bite was melty greatness. A triumph.
We get the call whilst paying the Mishkin’s tab that our space at the bar next door is free, so it’s a three second hop to the Opera Tavern for round two.
The burgers arrived, similarly sized, a blackened puck of meat tucked into a pale, floury bun.
One bite, and it immediately feels like you’re eating fancy home barbecue. The patty was expertly charred, giving it a hard crunchy crust, but within the soft and pink middle yielded easily. The pork had a deceptively beefy wallop, perhaps aided by the addition of the foie gras.
The floury bap was a touch disappointing, being a little dry. But the sweet onions, deeply infused with a rich red wine just about made up for it. A sprinkle of battered red onion added an additional unique crunch to the ensemble.
Finish Him!
But which is the mini-burger to rule them all? Whilst similar in size, they are both pleasingly contrasting, and served to split B/A opinion. Rob found it hard to fault the Mishkin’s slider, Simon preferred the freshness of the Tavern’s effort.
We say, screw it, do what we did and go eat both. They are next door to each other, how much more fortunate can you get!
Just a quick postscript on the Opera Tavern - we both agreed it was a superb establishment. The scotch egg and crispy pig’s ears were wonderful, as was the wine. We hope to go back for a less fleeting visit in the near future.
- Rob & Simon.
