Honest Burgers / Brixton, London

We’d like to say it’s a refreshingly British take on a burger.

Honest Burgers is part of the expanding mini-restaurant movement in Brixton Village (aka Brixton Market). You know immediately from the zeitgeisty ‘Inspired by Great British Produce’ sign on the window the kind of burger experience you’re going to get at Honest - none of your processed twaddle here.

It’s also super tiny, similar to Franco Manca, but there’s room outside and they provide blankets if you’re al fresco and it’s a bit nippy out.

We cracked into the cheeseburger first. The meat was cooked spot on medium but was (oddly for Ginger Pig fare) gristly, causing one tooth-shuddering bite. We chalked that down to bad luck.

What wasn’t luck-based, however, were the other ingredients.

The red onion relish mainlines a very strong balsamic flavour which was lip-curlingly sweet, dominating the mouthful and rendering what ‘pickled cucumber’ was there as redundant. You’d think a relish like this would compliment a full-bodied cheese, but paired with a rather sour red leicester, the two tasted uncomfortable together.

It’s worth noting this is the first time we’ve seen Red Leicester as a cheese option. Seeing how it melts, we’re hoping it doesn’t get trendy.

The Honest burger next, and it’s the most successful incarnation; the bacon being the real deal: crunchy and sweet whilst maintaining a soft chewiness. Again though, the relish makes an appearance, and the mature cheddar, whilst less offensive than the Leicester, is still unsuitable.

The fries are moreish as hell, doused in what looks and tastes exactly like Aromat, the low-grade crack of the seasoning world, with some rosemary lobbed in for good measure. They taste good, artifically-manipulated-good. (Seriously though, buy Aromat, you can throw that shit on anything and it tastes better, ain’t bad when you rubs it on your gums either).

We’d like to say it’s a refreshingly British take on a burger. What we will say is it’s a British take on the burger. Sadly, what it isn’t is refreshing. Or even novel. Much of what saddens us about the trend of the British burger can be read on our review of Byron’s short-lived Uncle Sam.

It’s question of taste at the end of the day. While we understand what Honest Burgers are trying to achieve here, it feels a teensy bit pretentious.

We wanted to love it. We just can’t.

And while the well-dressed South London urbanite crowd waiting outside suggests it’s pretty successful, as does the 100% score on Urbanspoon and bullshit takedowns on contrarian write-ups, it’s just not for us.

It’s all a bit too Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

One more thing: being in the market, HB has to open and close alongside everything else. This sucks really, especially when I go to Brixton regularly on Tuesday nights. It’s not open on Tuesday nights. Or Wednesday night. Or all of Monday. Or Sunday night.

In fact, if you are planning on going, then you’d better check if they’re open; otherwise the shutters to the market will be down and you’ll have to console yourself with some KFC and the fishy stench that pervades Atlantic Road after dark.

• Rob.
• Simon.

Mother Flipper / Brockley, London

We’ve finally got proper American cheeseburgers being sold by multiple vendors in the capital at reasonable prices.

It’s Friday night, and we’re lamenting the lack of excitement our last few burgers have delivered. We wanted something fucking good. Little did we know we only had to wait 12 measly hours…

In a car park, at the rather lovely Brockley market, you’ll find three youthful dudes with a grill banging out some pretty buzzworthy burgers.

They look like they’re in their early twenties, wearing obscure hardcore band tees and American Apparel hoodies. And honestly, we were kind of jealous. Why the hell weren’t we this proactive when we were their age?? We ordered all three of the burgers on offer, and then impatiently watched the impressively slick cooking from the grill boss and efficient construction from his buddies.

And, well, the burgers are excellent. Let’s have a closer look at a three course burger lunch:

Starter - The Mother Flipper

Their take on a classic cheeseburger, and our standard ‘control’ burger.

The first bite of the smashed, well-seasoned patty hits with a salty, deep meatiness from the concentrated juices pressed into the crust on the grill. It’s brilliant. The cheese is substantial, two slices thickly melted perfectly over the patty with a rather ingenious homemade cloche. A lattice of ketchup just takes the line over a spiral of French’s in the mix. Finished with some shredded iceberg and a beefy slice of pickle in the middle, it’s a very accomplished take on a classic.

And the brioche bun, from an undisclosed ‘artisan bakery in North London’ (we all need a secret ingredient or two) is impressive - solid, substantial and just soft enough, it contains everything without struggling from all the juice.

Mains: Double Candy Bacon Flipper

Two slightly smaller cheese-covered patties contained in a similiar set up to the Motherflipper, except with sweet, sticky candied bacon (which had a similar smokiness to Oscar Mayer). Nice to see a double patty bacon option here.

Pudding: Chilli Flipper

A really awesome and original take on a chilli burger, the pepper and onion mixture on the patty packs the heat of a kebab shop chilli sauce on one level, with a fragrant chinese-style lemongrass finish. It’s a complex and memorable kick, which lingers nicely.

Boom. Three superb courses.

These are really solid sandwiches prepared with startup, haphazard love: from the grill that occasionally teases hot and cold to the cunningly homemade cloches, by a guy you might bump into at the Turtle.

One final thing to say. It would be very feasible for someone to just order a cheeseburger and write it off as a competent Meatwagon rip-off. We recall this happening to the Lucky Chip guys last year and it saddens us enormously.

To those people we’d just like to say the following:

• Christ guys, it’s OK for there to be more than one Proper American Cheeseburger in London. FFS.
• If they’re similar then that’s because they’ve both Done It Right.

We’ve finally got proper American cheeseburgers being sold by multiple vendors in the capital at reasonable prices. Party times.

So this is a must return for us, and a must venture south for all you lot.1

Get down there. This Saturday. GO ON.

• Rob.
• Simon.

Mother Flipper

1. It would also be great to see these guys join the ranks of the Eat Street collective. Nudge, nudge. ↩

Bread Street Kitchen / St Paul's, London

We’re trying to figure out who is supplying London’s caterers with all these low wattage filament lightbulbs.

Mr Ramsay. Before we begin.

Christmas Cookalong.1

What the fuck were you thinking?

It was like being visually water-boarded with liquid inane awkwardness. If it wasn’t the awful Channel 4 fodder guests that ‘visited’, or Gordon’s frankly appalling repetitive small-talk, then it was the time-delayed cuts to That Guy That Played The Bongos In Jamiroquai while his dad tried unsuccessfully to hide the fact he was drinking poor quality lager at 10am on live television. Oh, and the small issue that huge chunks of the show were repeats of the previous nights’ Come Dine With Me, confusing the baubles out of people flicking on to it. Christ, I hope the pay check came in a dump truck that could fill up the father in law’s swimming pool.

Looking for the entrance to Ramsay’s newest restaurant Bread Street Kitchen, we barrel through One New Change, which sounds like a cross between a rejected boyband and an aspirational government policy.

It being at least a year since visiting Barbecoa, we realise it’s opposite. Next to a Nando’s. Just up the alley from a Byron. Round the corner from the Wasabi. Across the way from EAT.

Being on the rear end of the building, on Bread Street (hence the name), it doesn’t share the same quality views of St Paul’s that Jamie’s Barbecoa enjoys. In fact the view you do get is of the rather dull offices of the people that you’re sitting in there with.

But we are in. A sea of twill-shirted windsor knots scattered about the cavernous space faces us. The receptionist eyes us up and down, wondering to herself whether we missed Nando’s completely and fell through the wrong door.

We are a little bit uncomfortable.

The service from the get-go was super-slick. From the small-talk of the maitre d’ (“Oh you guys look like you’ve been working so hard today, try our cocktails!”) to ordering from the waiter - the food was out faster than a frisky greyhound. We went for two short rib burgers, some chips and a portion of macaroni cheese.

The burger is pretty. The burger is big. The short rib patties could hardly be faulted, if for a tad of sporadic underseasoning on one. The bouncy, brioche buns had been brushed with butter to double-team the mouth with rich butteriness. It was dripping butter before we even picked it up. The ketchup on the top bun half had the look and taste of a creamy-sweet tomato mascarpone mix. And the bottom bun was laced with shredded lettuce covered with mayonnaise and some barely-distinguishable mustard.

The result was a decadent sweet richness. So decadent in fact, that our crisp white napkins could barely protect us from the butter onslaught. The mustard was way too low in the mix to add the contrasting kick. The Bermondsey Frier cheese does a pretty good job at cloning mozzarella and halloumi, but doesn’t add the layer of salty slickness that we always look for. Similar to the carefully curated surroundings, it had an aftertaste of over-thought and design by committee.

After we’ve finished our burger, we look up to see that the entire room has filled up. We really can’t stress just how enormous BSK is. Vast. And by 8pm, after they’ve all finished their last billable 15 minutes of the day from across the road, the place is heaving. We realise a few things after agreeing that the macaroni cheese was ‘nice’.

Bread Street Kitchen is the most clumsily designed restaurant we’ve been in for years.

The menu positively froths with buzzwords, you can choose from the ‘raw bar’, ‘hot kitchen’, ‘small plates’ and the slightly spa-esque ‘hot stone’.

The reclaimed furniture: if you don’t manage to get a leather booth, you’re sitting on chairs from an Essex secondary school. We’re also trying to figure out who is supplying London’s caterers with all these low wattage filament lightbulbs. It’s been done to death here.

There is no set menu, and the portion control is rigorously small - Gordon wants you to buy at least three courses each, push a few cocktails down you and flummox you with a bafflingly long and expensive wine list. It’s the kind of wine list that sits perfectly in, say, Claridges; arguably it fits the clientele here, but it’s not for two scruffy bloggers buying a burger each and sharing a few sides.

It’s all very impressive when you’re in there. Very Big Manhattan Restaurant in what they’re going for. The illusion of which is ruined once you leave again and walk past the Nando’s next door.

If you can withstand the try-hard reclaimed decor, the cufflinked clientele, and the soft, incessant, insufferable balearic beats, then it’s worth a go. But we’d suggest getting an ISA, saving up, then taking lots of money and ploughing your way through the cocktail menu as quickly as possible. Or doing a law degree first.

• Simon.
• Rob.

1. If you’re wondering why Rob was watching the Christmas Cookalong, then it’s worth noting that his job at the Big British Castle involves watching lots of television. He was working on Christmas Day, the poor sausage. ↩

Bukowski Grill / Shoreditch, London

Rob

Oh my giddy aunt, where to start with this one.

Trust the entrepreneurs of Shoreditch to create a pop-up mall from things:

a) Michael Bay blows up in an average action sequence.

b) The unscrupulous use to move illegal immigrants about.

Shipping container locale aside, the feel of Bukowski Grill is weird: it’s got hints of a classic muted diner (the low hanging lamps, the Americana-heavy musak), but oddly crossed with a rustic feel. It was as if someone had bunged a short order cafe in the middle of the woods. Of Shoreditch.

Anyway.

Now, regular readers will know our opinions on the Open versus Closed bun issue. Well, when the cheeseburger arrived, we were confronted with a burger prep paradox: it was a closed bun. BUT, the pickles were on side AND there were no condiments inside. Completely unsauced.

As for the burger itself, the meat was pretty good, interestingly seasoned with what we though was a hint of porkiness. Bun was crunchy, and perhaps over toasted. The double gloucester cheddar was far too overbearing in the burger and overpowers the subtle flavour of the burger entirely. All condiments are hand made, and the mayo has a nice garlicky finish to it, but the only mustard on the premises they had was a pungent Dijon-esque horseradish variety. Odd choice for a burger joint that doesn’t serve roast beef.

Also slightly unsettling are the strange deli nuisances about the place: they offer a foccacia burger bun, which they’ll probably find doesn’t get ordered much at all. At least we hope not.

As for the other burger we ordered. Oh dear.

This motherfucker (legitimate swears, it’s called the Mother F) cut in half looked like a prop limb from a Saw movie.

We like our burgers rare to medium but one of these patties was raw to the point that it was still cold in the middle. You could see the fat. Despite some reservations, we persevered, under the impression that this was how was supposed to be. We stopped when nearing the middle. It was cold.

Now, disclaimer time, it was only their second day of opening. BUT, it was hardly super busy and they weren’t rushed off their feet (we were there around 3pm). The sous chef was eager to replace the burger for us, but due to time constraints, we had to leg it. So they were very kind in taking 50% off the already discounted bill (20% off for an introductory period). The service was great. The chips were nice.

Simon

What more to say.

Well, the boxes in the BOXPARK itself are adorable. Super cute.

As for the Bukowski Grill itself, the key point Rob hasn’t touched on, and one that is not apparent until you get into the place itself, is that this is a Spanish Burger Joint.

I have had one memorable Spanish burger, and that was at a branch of Ferran Adrià’s maladroitly named Fast Good in Madrid.

Once you embrace the Iberian heritage, a lot of the operational choices seem to make some kind of sense. At least a little bit.

The tomato on the burger is dehydrated (oven dried they call it). The brioche bun (I also balked at the focaccia option) is perfectly fine, but arrives completely unsauced. The mayo is an a squeezy bottle. The homemade ketchup is in a Heinz bottle. The aforementioned mustard is completely unsuitable and in a jar. There was also some chutney or something, for no discernible reason.

Now, the cheeseburger itself was perfectly satisfactory. Relatively unfussy. A solid C+. The beef is cooked in a baby Josper grill. An adorable thing itself, but not particularly well suited to cooking a burger. You get better results from a flat-top, and considering they’re not serving steaks, this seems like an expensive and unsuitable arrangement. It also means the cheese can’t be cloched. Combine that with a dense, heavy cheddar and a burger already lacking in wetness, it doesn’t come together well.

I won’t labour further on the poisonously undercooked Mother F. They were apologetic enough at the time and I’m sure they’ll sort their Josper timings out.

What with burger competition increasing week to week in London, I don’t think we’ll be back.

Afterword

Charles Bukowski is one of my favourite authors, and as a result I was hoping that the style and ethos of his work would be reflected in this place. Apart from the old school typewriter font menus (Bukowski fact - he used knackered portable Underwood typewriters in his early correspondence and writing), it isn’t. At all. Sad times.

• Rob.

The Admiral Codrington / Chelsea, London

Nestled on a road a stone’s throw from the Conrans and Chanels of South Kensington, ‘The Cod’ is an upmarket pub, of a similar ilk to the area it’s in (the bar staff all wear matching formal striped shirts, pints cost over four quid), but luckily lacking it’s pretention and stuffiness. Still, I went in wearing a hoodie and carrying a Boots carrier bag and felt like a right tramp.

The burgers’ arrival were greeted a with hushed silence from the table. The patty looked HUGE, and the juices flowing down the burger onto the plate were so mesmerising I made a video of it. Seriously.

On first bite, there’s a rich, sweet ketchuppy tang. Under the top bun is a deep red spread, which I was later told was primarily onion, red wine and tomato juice reduced down to an almost-puree and then thinly spread. It was a brilliant addition, and complimented the patty, which was moist and soft, adding a depth to the meatiness and sweetness of the beef..

This was paired with a sauce, which I gathered was a mayonnaise with flecks of coarse-grain dijon mingled in. This, mixed with the meat, the reduction, and the pickles meant every delicious taste blended and combined to create something very original and, I think, quite special.

All the juice of the burger, the sauce and tomato conspired to decimate the bottom of the bun, it capitulated quickly. But I couldn’t say I really cared, the taste of the whole thing was so *interesting* and jammed full of *flavour*. 

Now, at 15 notes, this is squarely in the pricey end of the burger spectrum. Hawksmoor money. But, I’d say it’s well worth it. And the place itself lends itself to a nice, relaxing dinner. So, next time you fancy a burger for, say a birthday, or an anniversary, or fuck it, a Wednesday, get yourself down here.

Oh, wait, the **SNACKS**:

Hats off to the mini sausages. These were INSANELY good. Ever so slightly bigger than a cocktail sausage. Covered in a honey and Dijon Mustard glaze, they had a caramel-like quality in it’s consistency and sweetness. They went. Quickly. The calamari rings were fresh, crisp, not greasy at all, combined with slithers of green chilli peppers that added real fire. The Pork crackling was thinly sliced like skinny curly fries, light and bubbly with a rich, sweet apple dipping sauce - very clever. 

theadmiralcodrington.co.uk

• Rob.