[RECIPE] Peanut Butter and Bacon French Toast Sandwich

Because every week is sandwich week, really.

This recipe works best with some nicely staled challah - we get ours from Costco. Don’t make any plans to do anything for at least a few hours afterwards.

Serves 2-3

Ingredients

• 3 eggs
• ground cinnamon
• 300ml of whole milk
• 50ml of double cream
• Skippy Smooth peanut butter
• 6-8 rashers of smoked streaky bacon
• 1tbsp of vanilla extract
• at least half a stick of unsalted butter to hand at room temperature
• icing sugar
• blueberries
• maple syrup
• 2/3 stale challah rolls (or other white bread)

Method

1. Preheat the oven and throw the bacon in on a baking tray.

2. Beat the eggs, milk and cream together lightly. Add in a good dash of cinnamon and the vanilla extract.

3. Pour the mixture in to a flat bottomed dish.

4. Halve your rolls and submerge them into the dish for a minute, flip and then do the other side too. Try to get as good a covering as you can so the mixture has really soaked in.

5. Melt a healthy knob of butter in your favourite pan.

6. Batch fry the toast, making sure the pan doesn’t get too hot and brown the butter too much. 2-3 minutes per side should do it but you can flip pretty regularly. Keep going until they’re a pleasing golden brown.

7. Once the toast is cooked, let them cool a little and then add a healthy dollop of peanut butter. Smooth works best with this recipe since it’ll melt quickly and is easier to spread without ruining the finish of your toast.

8. The bacon should nicely crisp by this stage - wipe off any excess grease with some kitchen towel, snap them in two and put them on top of one half.

9. Apply the top half, add a liberal dose of maple syrup, a cursory handful of blueberries on the side and sieve a layer of icing sugar on top.

10. Cancel your plans for the rest of the day.

• Simon.

“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:

1. It is PRICEY.
2. It is FULL of loud, gussied-up Canary Wharfers.
3. 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.

• A review of Long White Cloud in Shoreditch, from the excellent London Review of Breakfasts

Is a tumblr site a pre-requisite for new cafes then?

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.

View Larger Map

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:

1. Get up ridiculously early
2. Are optimistic mentals like us
3. Stop for In-N-Out in Arizona.
4. And Henderson.
5. Take a helicopter tour.

• Rob.

Previously…

In-n-Out Diaries part 1 - On first visits and franchises

“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.

1. First rule of Cheeseburger Club is: you never grill processed cheese.

2. 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.

[PREVIEW] The Fred Smith x Byron Chilli Queen Cheeseburger / Byron, London

Twenty two fricking venues. Twenty two.

That’s what Byron is up to now. If anyone ever had any doubt that this whole new wave burger thing wasn’t mainstream, then try to figure out how many covers they must be doing every weekend. Mindblowing.

Our general thoughts on Byron are already encapsulated in a review of their previous special from last year, the Uncle Sam, and haven’t really changed, so we won’t keep you.

What’s great about the Chilli Queen though is the involvement of Fred Smith of the Admiral Codrington, who is fast becoming a local hero. He neatly pirouettes around our nitpicks with the standard Byron experience: the bun is proper, the cheese is American and the sauce is plentiful.

In fact the chipotle mayo is wondrous - it doesn’t turn runny when cosied up to a hot patty and the raw chilli crunch delivers a pleasing uniform heat.

If Byron is Justin Bieber, then Fred is its smooth talking Ludacris.

This is a great way of more people getting a taste of what Fred’s up to, and that is most definitely a Very Good Thing.

Get it while you can. From today until that Queen holiday thing next month, at all the Byrons.

• Simon & Rob.

In every McDonald’s around the world, workers perform similar tasks with similar, shipped ingredients stored in similar freezers and prepared according to similar international protocol. This matters to economists, because McDonald’s offers an international apples-to-apples comparison of wages and prices.

[PREVIEW] MEATmarket / Covent Garden, London

MEATMarket, the latest offering from MEATrepeneurs Yianni and Scott, is a fast-food version of their one-stop-burger-shoppe model, hosting some old MEATfavourites as well as spanking new incarnations of classic American-style fast food.

If you’re at all interested in the movements of the Meat[_____] crew then you’ve probably already seen a few reports on this new site in Covent Garden that was previewing last weekend. So, to cut to the chase, here’s our take on it.

If you plonked Gott’s Roadside in a locale like DownUnder in Seattle’s Pike Place Market, we reckon this is what you’d get.

It’s the counterpoint to MEATliquor: the menu is optimised for speed and takeaway convenience. Yianni gave us a quick tour of the kitchen, explaining how it’s been organised so each dish has its own cooking station which will keep wait times to a minimum and make it a real option to the Covent Garden lunchtime crowd, as well as the post-theatre folks who don’t have anywhere to go.

The burgers are the quicker cooking dual patty versions with a few new additions. The Black Palace isn’t really a White Castle slider, more a version 2.0 of the Ibzo burger that was briefly available during the Meatwagon era eighteen months ago. How time flies.

The jalapeño poppers are a proper must-have, just like the deep fried pickles are at MEATliquor. Perfect heat.

The deep fried bacon covered Ripper Hot Dog was the surprise star of the evening.

The velocity of these guys is incredible. #MEATeasy only just closed down thirteen months ago and these guys don’t show any signs of slowing down.

Yianni is getting to indulge his love of Wendy’s and A&W with this one. We love it too. It’s a proper fast food joint with a shiny, new kitchen.

The strip lit market location makes it immediately different. And if we’re honest, underneath those lights, the burgers are more functional than aesthetically pleasing. Our suggestion? Wrap them up. Have some tongue-in-cheek fun with the packaging.

Jubilee Market is one of those especially grotty bits of Covent Garden. You’ll sit on a balcony above it, looking down upon a sea of tourist tat and Microsoft Word signage. It’s quite the juxtaposition and we can only hope tourists do stumble upstairs by accident.

It’s going to be another rip-roaring success, and it might just be the first step to making this corner of Covent Garden something to be proud of.

• Simon & Rob.

[VIDEO] Season 2 Episode 2 - Beefburger Wellington

In honour of all of those who ate beef out of boots in the 1800s, we pay our own tribute to the poshest pasty of them all.

Credits

• Featuring Mike, Dan, Rob and Simon
• Soundtrack by MakO and The MFQ
• Apologies from Tom

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.

[OFF MENU] The Goodman Big Mac / Goodman, London

Ah yes. A Special Burger.

Another Special Burger You Can’t Buy.

Sorry to post this, but as a piece of Friday lunchtime food porn we thought it was worth sharing.

John at Goodman made a wonderful Big Mac tribute burger featuring a brioche with that all-important middle bun layer, actual McDonald’s cheese and homespun Big Mac sauce.

It was epic.

• Thanks to Will for making this happen.

“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.

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.

“The ensuing battle to redistribute the bun was pretty amusing.”

Shad Thames, or Butler’s Wharf (we’re not entirely sure where we were), is an unapologetically 90s estate housing luxury yuppie apartments and offices. It’s a strange area, but tucked inside its boundaries is the The Dean Swift. It is surprisingly lacking an after work crowd when we head in to sample the signature burger. We ask it to be cooked medium.

It looked pretty striking - the elasticity of the melted emmental blanketing a big, round hunk of beef, with an ornate veggie topping, and a big ol’ bun to encompass it all.

But as always, looks aren’t everything.

First off - and let’s side with the purists on this one, patties should simply be meat, cooked and seasoned. Anyone else remember the last time they went to a place where they desecrated a patty by mashing ingredients in and turning it into a glorified meatloaf?

I do.

It was here.

With herbs, peppers, chopped onions, and flecks of Dijon in it. There are plenty of flavours going on, and whilst some bites pack decent hits of peppery mustard, it ultimately detracts from, not adds to, the core meatiness integral to a burger. Sadly, it had also passed medium a fair few junctions back.

The lettuce, tomato, onions and pickles are fresh and crunch, but are accompanied by chunks of red and green peppers. There were only noticed when they fell out of the burger. The aioli and relish both increased wetness without adding any real noticeable character or appreciable flavour.

The bun is another notable ‘flourish’. It’s definitely unique - with the consistency of panettone or a supermarket croissant, and the sweetness too. It looks great, but isn’t suitable for the contents. The moisture from the meat juice and sauce caused it to capitulate like a malted milk in a cup of tea - my companion cursed effusively as the middle of the bun disintegrated between his fingers. The ensuing battle to redistribute the bun was pretty amusing. Its considerable size also meant that there was bun left over at the end. More cursing.

This is one of those fancy pub burgers for the flash city worker crowd, in keeping with where it’s situated. But, we guess it’s just a bit too fancy for us. Too much unnecessary gastro-flair. We much prefer the Draft House which is only just round the corner.

We can only wonder what the impending Shard opening will mean for food in this area.

• Rob.

Our friends at Ben’s Canteen filmed the production of the BC burger.

Well worth a watch and don’t forget to read our original review.

• Simon.

The ‘best in the world’ lists it features on are definitely deserved.

“So where are you guys from?” grins Aaron Franklin as he de-foils a healthy looking brisket and brandishes a rather large knife. He asks me how I like my brisket. I immediately respond by asking him how I should like it.

Fatty, he says. You want the fatty end. He slices it in half, lifts it up and gives it a little squeeze. Juices run clear. My hours of waiting melt away. It all suddenly seems worth it. It is shortly after midday. And fuck me I’m starving.

I completely over order.

“You guys don’t have anything like this at home.” he says, with a glint in his eye. “You can only get this in Texas.”

Confident, much?

Naturally I bristle a tad at that comment. I don’t think he’d be very interested in me extolling the virtues of Pitt Cue Co. I take my big tray of meat and sit on the terrace outside. John Hodgman of the Daily Show and various podcastery goodness is there eating ribs. Anthony Bourdain is there too with his “No Reservations” film crew. He’s holding court in the centre of the room with a healthy plate of meat, posing for photos with fans. It’s all a bit Rolling Stones, but with more sausage. I analyse the three different bottles of sauce on the table. I take some photos. Before I’ve eaten anything it’s already a unique experience.

The important thing to remember is that as Brits, we collectively know fuck all about proper barbeque. Nothing. We’re a nation of grillers, of carbon charrers and of awful supermarket sauce. The opportunity to taste one of the absolute best in the heart of BBQ country is very exciting. It’s also our duty to report back and help influence what’s being done at home.

Much of my memory of Franklin BBQ is the waiting. Of anticipation. Of worry that Bourdain’s SLR-toting crew will have polished it all off before I get in there. They did have to queue with everyone else, there is no quick way to get in. My first queue pal is a New York startup guy in boxfresh Vans who’s just sold his company and isn’t sure what to do next. Something to do with ads. B2B. “You wouldnt have heard of it”. Very South By.

Behind me is a woman with two kids, both under five. She is married to someone that works here but doesn’t confess to “being a BBQ person”. She’s still enough of one to brave this line though. And again, marriage doesn’t entitle you to a queue dodge.

It’s 10.45am when I arrive. The queue has already snaked down the hill into the car park. I’m flabbergasted. I knew it would be busy, especially during festival week, but this is ridiculous. The two students in front of me say that on weekends, a 9am start is required if you want some of the fabled brisket. There is much chatter about Bourdain, who is a good sixty to seventy people in front of us. I can just about make out his silver head in the distance. The queue doesn’t seem to be moving much. I don’t really understand why, since there’s no enforced sit-down policy here. Surely some of these folks must be getting take-out.

I turn to Twitter.

If that Bourdain guy eats all the brisket before I get in there, I will fight him.

— Burger Anarchy (@BurgerAnarchy) March 13, 2012

A pixie-faced girl appears from the building dressed in an apron, Converse, stripy tights and a snug woollen beanie hat. It’s over eighty degrees. And it’s humid.

She tells us that the ‘Last Man Standing’ is a good twenty people ahead. It’s very unlikely we’ll get any brisket. Maybe some pulled pork or turkey if we’re lucky. Up until this point I thought Last Man Standing was a fairly poor Bruce Willis movie. But no, there is a guy and he is wearing a sign emblazoned with those three words. Whispers spread up and down the queue. The thirty people behind me disappear almost immediately. I choose to stay, knowing that this is my last chance to eat here for the foreseeable future. More people appear, some willing to risk it, others immediately getting back into the cars and heading somewhere else. By the time we reach the stairs I know my queue buddies fairly well. We all share a passion for meat - the tourists are long gone - so the conversation is good. A member of staff appears with an icebox of beer, a $2 Lone Star is mine. It’s 11.30.

Once we’re into the afternoon the door gets tantalisingly close. We’re still not guaranteed a full menu. The beanie girl pixie reappears out of nowhere and screams at the top of her voice “More brisket!”. The queue roars in response. We are all relieved. Maybe Bourdain wasn’t very hungry.

Spirits now lifted by the promise of a full menu, we get inside. The menu is stuck up on the wall, written on the same paper they use to wrap up the takeaway meat.

Immediately I’m over-excited. This is a once-off opportunity, so I should order nearly everything. I discuss menu strategy with my queue buddies. The brisket is certainly the most famous and geographically relevant (Texas is all about the beef), but there’s pork, beef ribs, turkey and sausages too. Not that interested in the sides. Startup guy says he’s just going to order all the meats. It’s his birthday. He’s here on his own. I offer a slightly weak ‘Happy Birthday’ in response.

Once we’re at the front, we’re amazed that it is actually the Aaron Franklin serving all the meat. Every customer is given his full attention. There’s idle chit-chat. Everyone tells him how excited they are to be there. Regulars are greeted like family. There’s absolutely no urgency despite the queue. I guess it’s such a super-advanced queue, it’s evolved way beyond any other queue.

We buy all the meat we can and find a nice spot on the deck.

The Meat

First I try everything without any sauce. The brisket is indeed special. Back home it’s become all trendy again which is at odds with the nice rolled pink Sunday roast ideal. Most brisket I’ve had is hard to get the best out of. It’s leathery. It’s easy to over season it. It’s hard to get the smoky flavour to penetrate sufficiently. Aaron’s brisket is soft. It’s oozing. The fibres break apart in a way I’ve not experienced before. The meat itself has that deep smoke flavour you’ve always dreamed was possible.

The pork ribs are pink. They’ve been cooked so incredibly slowly that the bone flops out when I pick them up. Pork isn’t standard BBQ fare here in Texas so it’s great to see so many pork dishes here. The pulled pork (which we’ve seen Aaron pull by hand in front of us) is superb. I get into the sauces - the darkest of which is my immediate favourite. It’s all coffee and treacle.

The meat doesn’t even need it but the sauce tops off each meat and accentuates flavour rather than disguising it. The only real disappointment is the turkey. Because it’s, well, turkey.

Texas tradition

Aaron is a relative newbie. Austin locals are notoriously hard on new restaurants, especially BBQ. What he’s achieved in the space of three short years has taken everyone else decades. This makes him the posterchild of new wave BBQ, and the fact he’s done it in the heartland is all the more impressive. It just goes to show, after all the talk and posturing and secret recipes, it’s nerdy food obsession that wins plaudits, fans, ‘top 5’ magazine articles and the mother of all queues.

If you’re in Austin (blag a SXSW trip, seriously) and you care enough about meat, or at least want to know just how good BBQ can get, then I wholeheartedly recommend the Franklin experience. The ‘best in the world’ lists it features on are definitely deserved. If you’re a queue hater and don’t understand why the hell someone would wait that long for a bog standard cut of beef they’re forced to eat for elevenses, then you probably haven’t read this far.

• Simon.

“It’s got two dart boards. TWO fucking dart boards!”

The self conscious nerve centre of Hackditchston (Shoredalney? Dalsneyditch?) is making a name for itself springing up some noteworthy food-based events in the last few months. Well now another one has popped up, the three month burger residency of Fattburger at The 3 Compasses.

It’s getting harder and harder to find a proper boozer-looking boozer in London, but the 3 Compasses is one of them, channelling the character of a sparse Working Man’s club, complete with rudimentary furniture, but run by some very friendly Dalstonites. It’s got two dart boards. TWO fucking dart boards! Do you know how hard it is to find a pub that has one? We’re sold. It’s also got Oranjeboom on tap. Double sold.

We ordered the three meaty offerings at the bar; the Fattburger, the Fatt Pig and the special of the night, the Fatty Korean. Our wait seemed to be a lot longer than others, and when my comrade questioned it at the bar we found out why: someone had taken our order to the wrong table by mistake, and that table (who hadn’t ordered any food) had happily accepted, and preceded to eat it all.

I know, fucking scumbags right? Apologies abound, our order was placed again and arrived quick smart complimentary skinny fries in all their salty goodness.

These are classically American-looking burgers - the cheese is impressively melty and the lettuce and tomato pop out. Apart from one sandwich arriving with a bottom bun on top, first impressions are good.

Ironically, the name of this residency doesn’t describe the offering. The patties aren’t fat(t). In fact, they are actuall anorexic. Or thin(n). This makes the meat hard to taste in the mix, as it’s lost by everything else. It’s palpably overwhelmed by the bun, which is dense, quite hard and crumbly, possibly a tad stale. They are pretty big as well, resulting in the last couple of bites being a salad sandwich.

The composition of the burger is good. The cheese threw out a pleasant après- -tang. It had plenty of tomato, lettuce and onion. And the sauces, whilst not brilliantly distinctive, were abundant. The combination lead to an agreeable, standard burger. The winner of the trio was the Fatty Korean - the kimchi added a mild kick, warm flavour and crazy amounts of saucy moisture that soaked into the dry bun and made it more-satisfyingly sloppy.

The ethos of Fattburger, and enthusiasm of the chef that serves up his wares, housed in such no-nonsense surroundings is cool as hell; all it needs is for the burgers to improve a bit and it’ll be a surefire East London go-to.

It’s early days, and we’ve got a feeling a return visit is on the cards.

• Rob.

Fattburger

Pretzel Buns and Reuben Burgers from the B/A test kitchen.

Recipe to follow once it’s been perfected.

“This is certainly a three star level of expectation.”

The Minetta Tavern is part of the New York Reservations Corps. Reportedly, it has a reservations list, and then it has a cancellations list, and if you’re lucky then you might get onto the list that will bump you on to the cancellations list.

So how the hell did I, a C-team food blogger from London get in?

Well, it was a series of happy accidents that led to my name getting on to the proper list. An actual table assigned to me with my name on it. And we have Scott to thank for that, so mad props to him for even getting us in the door.

Minetta is understated on the outside. However once you’re past two sets of front doors and an extremely heavy velvet curtain then you’re immediately frisked for your reservation. Then you have to find a square foot or two by the bar before getting shown to your table. The bar is absolutely swarming. The entire restaurant is not particularly big. If you scruffed up an old school Theatreland joint, let’s say J Sheekey, made it a bit smaller and ramshackle, then fill all the wall space with caricature sketches of former famous patrons from Minetta’s heyday. Lots of red leather and dark wood. An older clientele: think of all the coolest dads you’ve known and you’re there. No riff-raff. Plenty of locals who are on first name terms with the bar staff and a slightly sozzled-looking maitre d’.

And it’s tiny. Really small. Even by Manhattan standards (which never feels small to me as a Londoner anyway).

We had a table at the front near the bar looking upon the mass of humanity swigging back exclusively french wines and beautifully prepared cocktails. We couldn’t tell whether they’d eaten, were about to eat, or were just there to drink or in some cases, if they were a member of staff.

But enough about atmosphere. The whole room is bursting with charm, and that’s a happy precursor to the real reason I’m there. The Black Label burger.

This is a very famous burger. The elder statesman of destination burgers. Those who are better travelled and of a superior palate say it’s up there in the top few burgers in the entire United States.

I pretend to look at the rest of the menu while finishing a reassuringly strong Tom Collins.

Ordering it and waiting for it made me think of David Mitchell’s excellent piece about the weight of expectation with Michelin starred restaurants. For me, this is certainly a three star level of expectation. I’ve seen pictures, I’ve read about all the ingredients and how they’re prepared in exhaustive detail. I know about the meat, the bun, the onion confit. I know it doesn’t come with cheese and the garnish is on the side. I know it’s un-sauced.

And I realise all of these things go against the standard B/A playbook - we support saucing, we insist on cheese, we don’t like accessories on the plate. Closed vs. Open. All that jazz.

Then the Black Label arrives, thoughtfully cut in half. Since the whole room is dark and wooden and red, I grab the table candle and take this photograph:

I can’t bring myself to disturb such a beautiful puck of meat by jamming in the tomato, lettuce and pickle garnish. So I just pick up the nearest half and get going. Three bites in and our rulebook has to be torn up. The meat is of such incredible quality, flavour and texture, I can’t even think of a peer to compare it with. The outside has a perfect earthy char to it, but then there’s a good inch of soft, pink steak inside. It doesn’t bite like mince. It doesn’t really even look minced. It’s like they’ve coerced and massaged a beautifully aged hunk of ribeye into a forgiving terrine-like burger. The actual grind is a secret mix of ribeye, skirt steak and brisket from legendary New York butcher Pat La Frieda. All aged for, well, ages. Much longer than any other burger I’ve had before.

It’s totally unique and worth every cent of it’s twenty six dollars. The price is a bone of contention where a standard cheeseburger will give you change from a five dollar bill, but compared to upscale London comparators, it’s arguably pretty reasonable.

It is the standard that all ‘gourmet’ proper restaurant burgers should be measured by, and once again it’s the result of someone who is utterly obsessed with meat and flavour.

Having suffered many bullshit attempts at onion confit back at home, and seeing that it’s the only other ingredient beyond the meat and the brioche bun, it’s worth mentioning. The chefs at Minetta have produced an onion relish that doesn’t mask the beefy flavour with pungency: it’s delicate and a real umami tickler. It brings out the incredible beef flavour and ultimately means the burger just doesn’t need cheese.

I’m really glad I had the opportunity to eat this burger. If you ever get the chance, then go for it. Minetta Tavern is a perfect microcosm of West Village dining.

NB. Mrs D had the pasta. It was very nice.

• Simon.

“The ever-improving standard of the brioche burger bun is a heartening thing, and this is one of the better examples”

It’s the era of the pop up, and burger pop ups in particular. Every week it seems we hear about another one. This is a great thing, but their limited life span means that pesky real life commitments can get in the way of checking them all out. But where possible, we will hit these places up with a vengeance. So to just South of the river, and the bowels of Doodle Bar, to see what the latest brainchild of Street Kitchen is all about.

Doodle Bar is a South London attempt at East London warehouse drinking - it has all the trademarks of warehouse chic (the wide open, semi-open space) with all the nuances of a fancy pants bar (pre-distressed furniture, brushed steel lighting, and actual toilets). It has a table tennis table. It even has a huge wall with blackboard paint you can draw on with chalk! A great spot to wireframe your next killer iOS app then.

All this seems to please the impeccably dressed clientele inside. But enough of the scene setting. From the menu, you know you are getting the ‘pride in our produce’ style of burger, with each ingredient ingredient described in painstaking detail. We went for the Ari Gold with bacon and the Jose Jose.

The service is slick as can be, everyone knowing their role, each section manned with military precision - They even have a dude with his own grill just for toasting buns. Ridiculous. But shit, they are efficient and we had our burgers in well under 10 minutes. This is a massive surprise compared to other, more shitshowy, burger popups.

Opening the branded container, the Ari Gold looked impressive; the shiny bun radiating a come-hither glisten. But, hold up, wait a second: the trepidation begins to mount as we see the translucent-yet-electric-pink onions poking out. Not letting first impression get the better of us, we chow down.

It’s pretty good. The ever-improving standard of the brioche burger bun is a heartening thing, and this is one of the better examples - bouncy and airy, yet solid, it’s a great host for the Gold’s contents. The patty was proper quality meat and was cooked impeccable accuracy across all four burgers we ordered. Impressive.

But, and here come the buts: the cheese was dying to play a more prominent role, but there just wasn’t enough of it. The slices we saw them putting on the patty being just too thin to distinguish themselves. The onions sadly justified the worry; they weren’t just vinegary, they were the physical embodiment of vinegar. Eye-scrunchingly tart when trying them on their own. They were joined by the signature barbecue mayo sauce (more mayo than barbecue) that was abundant. Both of these strong flavours, whilst kind of working with each other, floored the beef somewhat. The addition of the bacon didn’t add anything to the mix, but banging a standard rasher into a burger with such flavours, what do you expect? And forking out more cash for it, not worth it.

Although the ingredients listed in the Jose Jose promised a very contrasting experience, what we got offered no real discernible difference. All that we could figure had changed was that the rocket has been replaced by loose leaf lettuce and the barbecue mayo with a more traditional barbecue sauce which only flecked glimpses of the chorizo that the menu promised.

These are solid, saucy burgers, with great buns. They ain’t cheap, but ain’t a rip off. Worth a pop down for the next couple of Fridays.

• Rob.

Patty & Bun