So let's just look at this shall we? Good solid burger, looks like a burger and not something perceived to be rugged or God forbid, organic, which is actually just a big broken roof tile of mince fried until its taken on the characteristics of a fossil. This looks like someone has taken the time there. There's that almost viscous melted cheese dripping over the edges, hey, there's even the dubious promise of some kind of life-sustaining nutrients with that lettuce peeking out. But this is a question of scale. Twice. Firstly there's that bun. That's the kind of bun that gives you a thirsty feeling before you even bit in. You know before you even bite into this that its gonna be really cotton woolly and dry. It was. That was forgivable (almost). The 'fries' however are a different matter. Now I'm all for innovation and I know these look groovy and impress your chef mates when your all sitting round your regular table supping obscure oversized bottled beers after hard day at the fryer but they have to taste good too. These, you may not be overly shocked to hear were still hard in the middle and no combination of twice frying, blanching or just general poncing about will change that fact. Its not the Six Million Dollar Man its a potato. Make it into a bundle of lava-hot, super crispy fries; even some kind of elaborate baked dish where you might enlist the help of a grater, ricer or even a piping bag, I'll try it. Or if you're feeling a bit Ferran Adrià, maybe devise a jaunty pub game that involves a teetering tower of potato hunks that you have to remove and throw away because they're inedible. Let's just be thankful for the onion rings, sulking at the back safe in the knowledge they're the real highlight. But we all know onion rings, like poppadoms and spring rolls are only ever the brides made, never the bride in these kind of situations. Upstaged by their starchy brethren time and time again, today was their moment in the spotlight. Messy, unhealthy, stinky, crunchy. Perfect. From the jaws of defeat comes slim victory.
Rating:
If this meal was a book you were recommended by a pretentious new age-y girl at a student house party but weren't arsed to even pick up until you got stranded in that airport after that Greek beach holiday 12 years later it would be: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I know this picture is old but I couldn't resist. Pleased that god listens to Slayer. I do. And not for the ticking the box ironic Vice magazine meytul-ness of it all but because it makes me happy. I looked around the Barrowland last night and saw scores of people - young and old-ish, hairy and only slightly hairy, male and even female - beaming as a bunch of fortysomething men sweated out some big raging things called 'Mandatory Suicide', 'Seasons in the Abyss' and 'Raining Blood'. Time is tight. I don't have a space on my dance card to pretend to like things more than I actually do so my status in small but influential subsets of society is inflated, I want to be excited, thrilled, indulged. That's what heavy metal does for me. It indulges without question. Some would argue so does happy hardcore but that sounds really annoying. There's a difference.
