Blog: Review - Byron Burger Kensington

Fads, mayonnaise, Larry David and penny farthings

Yoyos, Tamagotchi, Pogs. They all have one thing in common. They were a passing fad. They made millions of people happy. And they made millions.

There is a fad in the food trade at the moment, but whether or not it is passing remains a question. These booth seating, American food serving, truck stop diner reminding, junk food haunts are here in force.

That description sounds negative but it really isn’t. I love the ideas that are coming out.

Burger and Lobster, Patty and Bun, Duck and Waffle. Basically the key seems to be get two base ingredients, stick ‘em together and add frilly bits.

Simple but effective, and on the most part, bloody delicious.

I have been to Bubbledogs in Fitzrovia. It is genius. The simplicity, of putting a frankfurter in a bun then covering it in varying toppings making it a Mexicana, or a New Yorker is so simple. And it tastes good.

Stick a glass of Champagne in someone’s hand and it feels glamourous. Make them queue in the street and it feels exclusive. Execute the service well and the customers will relish the experience (excuse the bun, er pun).

A few years ago I ate at one of the originals, MeatLiquor, pointed out to me by someone with their hipster finger on the pulse. (Just to point out the same friend now has a really long beard, but I still love him).

Again MeatLiquor executed their no plates, finger muching, rough and ready occasion with class.

But there are only so many burgers you can eat in one life time and so picking up on the good fad restaurants is very important. Don’t waste your weekly carbs and meat allowance on one of the shit ones.

Unfortunately, this week I did. And I hope it wasn’t the moment that the fad reached saturation point.

I have heard so many good things about Byron Burger. In fact they must have been doing fairly well because they can boast 36 diners across London with a 37th soon to be opening in Holborn.

Popping out for a spot of lunch I used the website’s “nearest Byron” locater which lead me to Kensington High Street.

With the sniffery infused West London clientele to satisfy, I figured that this was probably going to be one of the better of the chain’s locations. It didn’t have the lights and whistles of the Hammersmith branch just up the road, but I wasn’t going to walk the extra mile for what should surely be the same offering.

It didn’t start well. Craft beers are all the rage, and places like Bubbledogs have tapped into that market, offering beers that are hard to track down anywhere else. So I chose the in-house Byron Lager.

“We don’t have the Byron Lager”, she says. I didn’t want to go all Larry David and so held back from asking where else I could possibly get a Bloody Byron Beer if not from Bloody Byron Burger.

I took on a small Peroni instead. Out comes a large one. Normally I wouldn’t quibble, but I was working and had to drive later.
They took it back.

The second attempt featured a small Peroni with a glass tumbler. The tumbler was battered and scratched to within an inch of its life. I actually don’t mind that, it shows use and character.

However, I don’t particularly like my tumblers with a side order of mayonnaise, despite its beautiful nouvelle cuisine-style smear down the side. Well at least I hope it was mayonnaise.

The home of the “proper burger”. A great sound byte. I am not sure if you can sue under the trade descriptions act, but there was nothing “proper” about it, unless by “proper” you mean proper similar to Wimpy.

To be fair, the actual meat patty was cooked well. But the refrigerator tinged bun, stalk end of a lettuce leaf and token tomato and onion slices were pretty pathetic. Oh and there’s the mayonnaise again.

Are they trying to fob hipsters and fad chasers into thinking that it’s just really trendy to be crap?

“Oh you will love it Gilligan, they serve it up on an already greasy piece of grease proof paper and there is open plan kitchen where you can watch the chefs carry a dirty table outside before picking up your plate and handing it to you. It’s just sooooo Shoreditch!”

From the picture you can also see a lonely gherkin, quartered length ways, (I guess that is arty), stuck on the side of the plate looking very sorry for itself. I was just grateful it didn’t have mayonnaise down the side of it as well.

I left there genuinely wishing I had got a Burger King. It would have been half the price and at least there, you already know that once you’ve ordered and eaten there will be feeling of melancholy and regret.

As I unchained my penny farthing, tied back my hair and put on my Morrissey record I couldn’t help but ponder – “Oh well, only 253 burgers left to eat then.”

Review: Salt House Tapas, Liverpool

Much more to this town called malice

I consider myself a fairly travelled fellow.

Having ventured across most of the world’s continents at some point or another, I’m pleased to boast membership to the often-tedious group of humans.

Those who begin an exceptional amount of anecdotes with the phrase “well, when I was traveling…”

However, there is a considerable gap in my knowledge - rather closer to home. The North.

Just three weeks ago I sampled the delights of Newcastle for the first time, and now I, a staunch southerner, took my life in my Kentish hands and ventured back across the Watford Gap to the wintery climes of Liverpool.

With the jokes revolving around factories and cloth caps smacked smartly out of my mouth following my trip to Tyneside, I looked forward to what the former European Capital of Culture had to offer.

It started with a rite of passage on a Virgin train from London, where two Scouse fellas entered into a scuffle over use of the complimentary plug to charge their mobile phones. Yes, one was sporting a moustache and light perm, while the other wore a shell suit jacket.

Fortunately, that was the first and last stereotype I encountered.

Beautiful buildings, modern art and a plethora of retail, culinary and business activity greeted me - as did a chum who has made Liverpool his home for almost a decade since his decision to move north in search of the world’s finest gravy and chips (that’s it for the northern jokes now).

Having spent the day interviewing and tasting southern soul food at the new What’s at 62? restaurant in Castle Street, my chum suggested something a little lighter, so we headed for small plates at the Salt House Charcuteria & Tapas Bar.

On the knuckle of Hannover Street stands the expansive building, but packed full of tables in every straight and corner – whether that’s in homage to the cosy back alley inlets of San Sebastian or just to increase cover potential, I don’t know - but it lends to a lively, buzzy atmosphere.

It has the open counter/theatre kitchen with dried meats hanging on display. It also has imported Spanish beers, wines and sangria. Our waitress suggested that between six and eight dishes would be enough to fill two growing (in weight) lads and the diplomatic decision of three choices each was reached. And then my chum ordered a fourth because he is a bit bigger than me.

But unfortunately, there was a real swing between the poor and excellent in our ordered dishes,

The boring Malaga fried fish featuring fried calamari, prawns and hake (£5.95) was okay but nothing to write home (or a blog) about. The batter tended to over power any real chance of tasting the fish encased inside. It reminded me of fried whitebait that you used to get from old-fashioned sea front stalls.

However, we also took on the exquisite pan-fried padron peppers (£4.95). Bursting with juices and spicy energy, with a sprinkling of salt to get the taste buds whirring. Beautiful.

Next came tiny langoustines with fennel and chilli risotto (£7.95).  There was no real kick with the risotto spice and the pre-peeled langoustines were nothing if not malnourished.

Then we headed back into the plus points again with two fried chicken and chorizo sliders (£5.95). Beautifully crafted and seasoned with emmental cheese and pickles.

They may sound a bit KFC-esque, but they were light, tasty and right on the money in size -  and they would make a really nice, stand-alone dish at any restaurant.

The tomato bread, which was supposed to be toasted, was soggy (£2.95) but despite its moist state was till pretty flavoursome.

Our order of the Iberico ham croquettes, a tapas staple, was good (£5.50) but not memorable.

The late-comer was cauliflower tempura with piquillo pepper hummus, pomegranate and coriander (£4.95). Again a really nice dish which outshone some of its counterparts. The light tempura was not greasy and the pomegranate tang with spicy hummus was noteworthy.

There were other beautiful sounding dishes on the menu in the charcuterie section, and perhaps we ordered wrongly as a lot of the main dishes seemed to be fried.

The service staff we encountered were young but helpful but unlike a traditional tapas restaurant, everything seemed a bit rushed – hinting at the latter of the two table squeezing objectives I mentioned earlier.

It was pleasant enough without being impressive. It was all a little middle of the road, some good bits, some bad bits.

Would I go back? Probably not.

For another Tapas restaurant review click here - Williams & Brown Tapas, Whitstable

Review: The Broad Chare, Newcastle

All day, and all of the night...

Most stag dos to Newcastle involve three things.

1) Being forced to drink a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale at pace during which a jubilant crowd of Newcastle Dog Track attendees screams “Down it! Down it! Down it!”

2) Sleeping on the stairs outside your hotel room because your mate has passed out inside, having gone home earlier with the key.

3) Having a Geordie bloke suggesting you should "step outside" with him because you decided to wear a coat.

I witnessed all of these events last weekend. But more than that, my particular group, which included a chef of some stature, also witnessed an excellent meal.

Having filled up on cheap drinks and takeaways for a couple of days we rolled out of the cab at The Broad Chare.

Unannounced, the seven-strong group - probably looking like absolute scoundrels - arrived at the pub which sits just a street back from the Tyne.

It is set in an old brick building, but with a modern-rustic interior.  As one of restaurateur Terry Laybourne's 21 Hospitality Group, the pub features stripped back tables and a plethora of brass fittings and frosted glass.

Keeping to current trends, the day’s specials were scrawled on the mirrors – another look that so many are going for. And why not, it’s pleasant, if a little derivative of the front runners - See Here.

Chef Chris Eagle heads up the boozer’s nosh and offers exactly what it says on the slogan – “Proper pub, Proper beer, Proper food.”

A proper British picnic, upliftingly simple but beautifully crafted.

In a tapas-style frenzy, the hungry group took on 12 Lindisfarne oysters - au natural - at (£2 each), deep-fried monkfish cheeks with tatar sauce (£3.50), sumptuous warm scotch eggs (£3.50) arguably the best Middle White’s pork crackling and Bramley apple sauce I have ever tasted (£2.80) and the most picturesque hand-raised pork pie (£3.50) I’ve ever seen (pictured).

Two pints of Scotland’s finest St Mungo lager was hair of the dog for me while various ales and craft beers were quaffed to much cheer.

Beginning to feel human again, no less than five of the team chose the roast beef Sunday special (£12.50).

But when it arrived featuring a giant Yorkshire pudding, three generous slices of beautiful beef, plus all the trimmings, you could hear the mixed sighs of intestinal apprehension and visual joy.

Despite the spacing worries, the meals were polished off with aplomb.

I personally chose the crispy duck leg, sat on an embankment of braised lettuce, peas and bacon (£15). More juicy than crispy - just how I like it - the meat fell from the bone, was light and tasty and set off by the tang of the lettuce and salty bacon.

The Broad Chare was one of just two North East venues to receive a Bib Gourmand in the 2013 Michelin Guide - its mouthwatering yet inexpensive snack selection tells you all you need to know.

The service remained excellent, despite the group of hung-over herberts who turned up for a lunch session unannounced. I wouldn’t have wanted to serve us, let alone smiled and chatted - all the while ignoring the obvious smell of Sambucca.

From its mutton masala to the spicy black pudding and beer mustard, there is an air of unashamed but spectacular dumbing down in the menu – as though a genius is teasing us, just letting us in on a hint of the magic he has in his locker. 

Using just British classics, Eagle has spun a magical trap of pub fodder you might have once eaten from a paper plate or atop a soggy beer mat.

Now just stick me in a corner, pop the dunce’s hat on me and feed me more.