The Great British Burger Debate

The seemingly small matter of where one finds the best burger in London inspires a disproportionately large amount of deliberation and debate. From bona fide food critics to aspiring hacks like myself, everybody has an opinion - the only thing we seem able to agree on is that if you have it well done, yours doesn’t count. To date, Daniel ‘Young and Foodish’ Young has put together what comes closest to being a definitive list of the capital’s best bits of flattened beef, declaring the best burger in London to emanate from the Goodman kitchens. This is a fairly accurate assertion in so far as it is probably the best I tasted to date, despite a major balls-up with regards to cooking time. I sampled their wares late-December at Burger & Lobster, a Mayfair offshoot devised to satisfy public demand for the more humble end of their menu (and presumably free up tables in their restaurants for people spending vastly superior sums of money).

Even though either the person working the grill or the wait staff seemed to have got something pretty badly wrong – medium-rare arrived completely well-done – it was still a pretty awesome hunk of flesh and not at all dry, a minor miracle given the way it had been cooked. Crucially, the fries were the real deal – thin and overly salted in the disgracefully moreish, McDonald’s tradition, while the lobster dish consumed by my companion was deemed pretty flawless. I certainly deemed it an absolute steal for £20. Added to the fact that the concept was beyond brilliant – a three-item menu, spectacular cocktails, the simplest of price schemes – I was a very happy punter indeed, especially after the management offered me free drinks to compensate for the unsatisfactory greyness of my patty. 

At the other end of the spectrum, many believe that life for London’s burger aficionados began not in a well-heeled steakhouse, but in the car park of a south-east London industrial estate with Yianni Papoutsis and his Meatwagon. Again, there’s a certain amount of truth in this claim. For sure, some of the best burgers I’ve tasted this side of the pond came courtesy of Papoutsis and his #Meateasy tenure above a dilapidated pub in New Cross that just happened to be dangerously close to my university. Yet by the time the rest of my art school comrades caught on, the place hadn’t just become a cesspit of pretentiousness, it had started to churn out inconsistent bordering on average burgers, including one that was, for lack of a more eloquent phrase, burnt to shit. Don’t get me wrong:  I’ve always been one of Papoutsis’ biggest fans and love the new joint, MEATliquor, where the deep-fried pickles elicit a particularly strange type of nostalgia (I used to eat them at the now deceased branch of Hooters in Boston). But that doesn’t mean to say that I’m blind to the occasional failings of his restaurants.

Unfortunately, it seems like many writers and bloggers are, glossing over the shortcomings that have evolved with the Papoutsis brand because his ventures are so achingly cool and fit the current gastronomic zeitgeist perfectly. So credit to the likes of Fiona Beckett and even LSE’s student rag The Beaver for restoring some sense of proportion to an otherwise one-sided debate. The burgers are frequently masterful, but increasingly there seems to be a backlash against some aspects of the service and the no reservations policy. Based on my multiple experiences at Chez Papoutsis, it’s certainly doesn't seem like the type of place where the staff deferentially offers you freebies when the kitchen gets it wrong. On the contrary, I think I'd end up feeling like a bit of a square for being attentive enough to notice and sober enough to care. 

The rest of London’s main contenders occupy similar ground in that if they’re not knowingly gourmet, they’re self-consciously gas station. My local ‘best burger’ in Hackney, Lucky Chip, seems like a blood relative of the Meatwagon: starting out life in the converted car park that is now Netil Market, they have recently set up shop and sling nights at The Seabright Arms nearby. The joys of full taxation, it seems, are only a matter of time. And, like Papoutsis’ burgers, Lucky Chip is good, very good even. The Sheen is hugely popular and, while it was slightly overcooked for my taste when I tried it last weekend, it was hugely enjoyable as well. I’m not totally convinced about the addition of Philly cream cheese and garlic aioli to a burger. One by itself would be a huge risk; two combined seems to border on sacrilege. Yet the beer soaked onions I have been trying – and failing – to recreate at home ever since. A great burger, and an indispensable local, but London’s best? I’m not so sure. Like MEATliquor, it’s great but hardly definitive.

Back at the oligarchic end of things, Hawksmoor offer a highly commendable burger that, like Goodman’s, is all about the meat: 100% Longhorn beef, I’m told they use some interesting old fashioned cuts in their mince mix and then add little nuggets of bone marrow to give it the astounding depth of flavour that becomes apparent on first chomp . So delicious it is and also huge, an important quality given the price point. But I still found it slightly overcooked, the centre being a faded kind of salmon pink rather than the vibrant, still-a-bit bloody red that I crave.

On the high street, Byron churns out classic, diner-style burgers that push all the right buttons and, despite their relatively commercial status, slot in nicely as a widely available alternative to the likes of MEATliquor and Lucky Chip. At least, that’s what I thought while I was eating it. The day after, when I was throwing up in the cellar at work, confined to a hammock while my obscenely kind colleagues covered my shift so I didn’t project into a punter’s pint glass, I wasn’t as convinced. In fact, I began to understand why some eateries don’t serve their burgers rare. They do, however, and it came beautifully pink, close to perfect even. Unfortunately, it looked slightly less appetizing the next day, though I’m (fairly) confident this was a one-off as I have eaten many a Byron before.

Occupying a position somewhere in the middle, the burger at Elliot’s Cafe in Borough Market is a real gem and, I think, sadly underappreciated by us burgerphiles. In fact, it was the eye-opener that single-handedly reigniting my interest in the London best burger debate. Smothered in gorgeously stringy Comté cheese from the market and with an exquisite, paste-like onion mix à la Lucky Chip, it was the best of both worlds: properly meaty, but also appropriately simple. Not quite as gloriously trashy as a Dead Hippie, but equally not the jaw-bursting prestige ingredient patty of Hawksmoor. And their rosemary spiked matchstick fries were such a welcome break from the status quo – though probably not as good as the fries at Burger and Lobster, I enjoyed them considerably more than I do chunky chips.

I would go as far as to say my first burger there was my favourite, to date, in the capital: the doneness was precision personified, and I remember being reminded a bit of the burgers I used to eat at the Walden Grille back in my teenage wasteland, Concord, MA. No amount of bone marrow or stupidly strong cocktails can induce that kind of nostalgia. Unfortunately, a second visit turned up a burger that was – sigh – slightly overdone. Still, the concept of Elliot’s is totally #winning, and it pulls off the rare combination of being pretty gastronomically flawless, fairly hip (the interior is very NY-minimalist), yet completely relaxed bordering on homely. I really enjoyed not being surrounded by wankers in suits – or wankers in skinny jeans. I was, for lack of a better phrase, as close as comes to being in my element.

Should a distinction be made between the sleazy greatness of the MEATliquor’s and Lucky Chip’s of the world and the more gourmet, ingredient driven efforts churned out of the City’s best steakhouses? And where does that leave high street peddlers like Byron, and market cafes like Elliot’s? The universally admired Spuntino, too, falls somewhere in the middle: not as cheap as MEATliquor or Lucky Chip, yet far too hip and casual for the steakhouse brigade. It is into this grey area that I feel my most recent burger of note also falls, though as a venue it's decidedly uncool. Despite a recent confirmed Bob Geldolf sighting, Daylesford Organic isn’t normally regarded as a contender. It should be. Granted, there are now many great burgers in the capital. Many I’ve tried, others I haven’t: Bar Bould, Joe Allen, Honest Burger, and the Admiral Codrington are all notches waiting to be added to my gluttonous bedpost. 

The main selling point of the little, communally seated café above their shop in Pimlico is the organic produce used in nearly every dish served – it’s certainly not the privilege of eavesdropping on wealthy ex-pat yummy mummy’s eating quinoa salads (“Sheldon just can’t wait to go to Princeton…”). I was initially disappointed when I asked for it medium-rare and was told the rarest it came was medium. As devoted burgerholics will attest to, in many restaurants – and especially average ‘gatro’ pubs - ‘medium’ is code for ‘you might as well eat your shoe.’ Not so here. Although the presence of a half-eaten tomato makes the photo look significantly less than appetizing, it was a fine specimen, a well-sourced piece of meat if ever there was one. To me, it was a very acceptable medium-rare and a kick ass interpretation of medium – juicy, still a little bloody, the way they serve them in France, even on the shabby campsites I have visited on the Atlantic coast.

Refreshingly, it also didn’t automatically come with chips – having had a great starter of salmon tartare, I really wasn’t in the mood for a pile of potato. Instead, Daylesford serves it with a lightly dressed mixed salad, which sounds like a hypocritically healthy partner for a burger but was, in actuality, a perfect match. Wherever they came from and however they were grown, these salad leaves were so infuriatingly fresh and flavourful they made me want to chain myself to the salad section of Sainsbury’s and scream, “WHY?” at the top of my lungs.

So what’s the catch? What’s stopping me from arrogantly Tweeting Mr. Young and saying, “Hey buddy, I think ya missed one.” The bun. Though it looked the part with some attractive griddle marks, it tasted way too wholesome, like the seeds on the top were meant to actually impart nutritional value rather than simply serve as window dressing. I’m sure it was produced in fantastic fashion with truly great ingredients – it just didn’t taste great, unfortunately, though in mitigation it did hold together. It was so dense I suppose it had to. So London’s best burger this wasn’t, but it was certainly a valiant effort. Barring a shocking mis-interpretation of burger bun basics, it would be in my Top Ten. It was tasty enough and cooked well enough to probably make it anyways.

For sure, the quality of hamburgers in London has come a long way since 2008, when Time Out offered a thoroughly misguided breakdown ofthe various ‘gourmet’ beef patties on offer in the capital: GBK garnered five out of six stars, which if dated 1998 would have still sent shivers down my spine. 2008, however, is wholly unbelievable if mildly humourous: it’s only a few years ago and around about the time Papoutsis was thinking of revving up his engine. The fact is, there isn’t a ‘best burger’ in London any more than there’s a best pub or nicest part of town to live in. Hamburger glory can be found next to a burning oil drum swigging from a can of Stella (minor attribution due to The Ribman for the petroleum reference) or sampling fine wines next to hedge fund managers (though bankers are politely warned to steer clear of me if a steak knife is nearby...) Much of it is down to individual preference and attitudes to ambiance and service. And luck. In a way, restaurants are like football clubs: they all have good days and bad days, and while Man U typically has more good days than, say, Arsenal, that doesn’t mean their product is inherently better.  Fortunately, however, there are now lots of great burgers in London and I hope, for the sake of my fellow denizens, across the U.K. When Fergus Henderson and the crew at St. John turn their eye to the matter and adopt it as a mainstay of their bar menu, that’s when London’s best burger will probably be found. Until then, it’s great to have an excuse to keep eating them under a semi-justifiable guise. Like a borne Yank actually needs one...

Is this London-centric blog totally missed the point? Is Britain's best burger found further afield? Or does Battersea have a hidden gem? Let me know. Scavengers will always travel for a good feed... 


A full review of Daylesford Organic based on two or three lunches there will be posted in the next week or so.