Black Friday

I have had many happy times in Nice 'n' Sleazy. Arab Strap, Bob Logg III and Lapsus Linguae making my giant cranium vibrate with delight but I always thought of the food to be an afterthought. I had a Black Friday burger there recently. That it was eateb there on a Friday was pure coincidence. And to deliberately misquote Han Solo - it might not look like much but it's got it where it counts. My initial disappointment at seeing a relatively tiny lunch arrive (and their warning it would take 15 minutes to prepare was no idle boast - but it did give me a chance to reaquaint myself with Scotland's free local music journalism) my heart sank when I saw that most pointless of contemporary culinary accessories: the wee tin bucket for your fries (not this however).


*aside* if anyone has a proper use for these then let me know, I will happily wrestle them up from the evil clutches of unimaginative cooks everywhere, and parcel them up to be shipped to Liberia where they can use them as tiny sun hats for their pets or something.


Anyway, the Lucasian reference above was referring to a tall but not wide patty which from was shrouded from view thanks to a green leafy poncho of salad. Once I had remove the skewers which held the nametag - this Paddington bear inspired touch was not wasted on me. Cute - the total package was extremely weighty. Inside was a Tabasco infused hunk lean beef covered with molten, tangy blue cheese and doused with a sweet and dirty ketchupy barbecue sauce. The crispy greens and meaty tomatoes only added to the joy. Liquor soused the plate after one bite as the meat was that succulent. The whole thing fell apart in my hand but given that I almost bit off a finger in the process I fear that was definitely my fault, rather than anyone else's. In short, this was nothing short of tremendous. The offending pot of prefectly decent wedgie fries were now not only excusable but positively useful when it came to mopping up the juicy flotsam that littered the plate. Nice 'n' Sleazy has always felt like safe haven to me - the jukebox, the decor, the general geekery of the whole endeavour makes my heart sing. Here's another reason to add to the list. 
If this burger was a Mogwai album it would be: Come On Die Young. Unassuming, overshadowed by its more fiery brethren but cunningly devised, ingeniously exectuted and a treat for the senses.

Some homework December '11

Forgot all about this cheeky wee scamp. Knocked it together over Christmas but only found the snaps again now. No great revelations here, aside perhaps  from the wildly unseaonal application of avocado, but hey, it's only air miles and the exploitation of the the third world by multinational corporations on my behalf, right?
So we're looking at beef and fried onion burgers, cheap cheese, double (annoyingly tasteless) tomato, sliced avocado and a couple of rashers of extra crispy smoked streaky bacon. Should have been pancetta but given the onion-y tang of the burgers it probably would have been a waste.  Fell to pieces instantly of course - I'll one day corral a room full of mathematicians and physicists to calculate for me the optimum height-to-width ratio of a burger, but I still haven't got the grant through yet - but the composite parts were very respectable indeed.

If this burger was a show on Discovery Shed it would be: This Old House but not the good series when they did the harbour side house in Boston or the converted firehouse, just the okay series when they refitted the New Orleans street post-Katrina. 

It's 1955 okay?

Given Iggy's fondness for hawking car insurance (from a company that wouldn't insure a self-employed musician friend of mine ) me paraphrasing the Stooges when talking about McDonald's isn't such heresy these days.

So this is the 1955 burger, based on the original recipe for the first ever Maccy D burger. Now I have no problem sucking at the corporate teat like some mindless drone, especially if I get a burger at the end of it, but even this left me pathetically pawing like some drugged Russian circus bear in search of some scraps of dignity, duped into thinking something special was afoot when all I got was a disappointing lunch. Or declawed and shipped around the world to be gawped at by curious humans.

The restaurant's periodic specials are clearly targeted at those poor sap dads (in my limited experience, women are rarely taken in by such elementary smoke and mirrors) trundling through the drive-thru for a clutch of happy toys (ie. me). As if life isn't complicated enough, they distract with continued, seemingly 'limited' burger variations, poking an onion ring or bacon rasher under the hood like some saturated fat-soaked supercharger ready to propel your regular burger 'n' woolly bunage into some culinary interstellar overdrive.

Now, I've been busy this week with learning things and a lovely man pointed out that this is actually called marketing (thanks Matt) and this 'old is the new new' idea might not be the spirited trip down memory lane it might first appear. For me at least, given my lack of being born in 1955.
Biting into the 1955 burger confirms this, it is in fact something of a Frankenstein's burger, a quarter pounder with all the jokes taken out - what has ketchup ever done to you, you brazen condiment exclusionists? We get treated to a parp of their Big Mac sauce instead. The result is a trembling wilt of goop, too much pattie flop and no fun-in-the-bun extras (vegetables weren't invented until the 60s clearly) to distract or even just crunch. Bear in mind this is coming from someone who could happily enjoy the belt-fed wombat treatment on their cheeseburgers on any given Sunday.
I feel duped. I'm vulnerable when I visit you McDonald's. Please don't take my inability to say 'yes, one with nuggets and milk' while driving at 4 mph and pulling wallet out of my back pocket as a sign that I want an inferior greasy lunch. I want a fun greasy lunch and may resist feeling 'special' in future. I still ate it of course, but only so there was less to tidy up later in the back of the car.

If this burger was a form of transport it would be: a rail replacement bus service.

Union of the snake

Thanks to Dawid for this one. Pushing the limits of international burger relations. I've given you very much the highlights' here. Its not massively gory, just not very appetising to western palettes perhaps. Bet it tastes like chicken.



Take a look at this Polish website for the full photo story.

It's been a long time...

I shouldn't have left you/Without a strong rhyme to step to/Think of how many weak shows you slept though/Time's up/Sorry I kept you.

Thank you Rakim.


So anyway, in the time since there's been this...


Created by my father-in-law's own fair hand. Big, sturdy, not lacking in flavour, boosted by the finest of company (both brewed and human) this was a big lump of sentimental mince. Our last day in the US of A. Amazing additions (look how well that tomato fits the bun) I think I had at least two and a half.

RATING:
If this burger was a shirt it would be that blue one you've had for ages that doesn't look too flash but people always comment on favorably at get togethers.

That wasn't my entire summer. There was plenty of this.


Plus lashings of this.


I even found time for this.


Which I came across at the Villager, where some great service, great cheese, and truly unnatural dining position - eating lunch on an 18" high couch and 18" high coffee table - could not distract from the fact that this was a pretty decent lump of meat. Sadly less than the sum of its parts, the build up set the stage for something rustic and muscular, this was robust but not in the way that it could defend you from muggers. A disappointment only exacerbated by what can only be called stoatin' hard fries.

RATING:
If this burger was a member of Lynyrd Skynyrd it would be one of ones who survived the air crash.

Not practical.

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.