I’m a pretty cheap date. I can happily point out the
redeeming features of a Nando’s, fully understand the cold functionality of a
Wetherspoon’s, and even occasionally appreciate London Transport. Hell, I
actually really like Pizza Express. But I’ve come to realise that, however much
of a gastronomic hussy I may be, I’m just not slutty enough for the Bavarian Beerhouse.
Before accepting to run this particular gauntlet, I did a bit of research. After looking at their website and briefly pondering their menu, every sensible part of me (and there are a few left) was screaming: “Don’t do it!” For some reason though, I felt obliged, perhaps because of the slight flattery that came with reviewing solely on the back of my blog’s name for the first time. So I told myself that I could be wrong about it, reminded
myself that the exterior of my beloved Cirrik does itself down by way of a
loutish kebab sign, and thought back to an alright meal I think I had in
Mallorca once, where the menu was a similarly vulgar melange of cheap
photography and flaccid description. But honestly, looking back, I shouldn’t
have even been in the bookshop, let alone judging things by a certain clichéd
bit of paper.
The best thing I can say about the Bavarian Beerhouse? Well,
I can see that it serves a purpose of sorts, just like the Monster Raving Loony Party offer voters a choice, and heroin does exactly what it says on the tin.
Slightly more downmarket and dingy than your average Student Union bar, the fact that drinking games aren’t only tolerated
but openly encouraged speaks volumes about the target audience: office
piss-ups, stag and hen nights, and football fans.
Yet for some reason, I was invited to review the food. Not
to try and hit nails with the wrong end of a hammer surrounded by inebriated
young ladies, nor to watch the next Bundesliga match and learn rude new songs
in a foreign language. God knows why they wanted to self-flagellate on the PR
front like this, for the food they serve is so dire, so mind numbingly
terrible, it seems like an overt act of political one-upmanship. I’ve never had
astoundingly wonderful food in Germany, but never anything this bad and I've certainly never been confronted by a ‘Hawaiian schnitzel’ on a menu - not exactly a good start for a place that bills itself as "traditional" and "authentic." In making
even the most average Munich beer garden look like the height of gastronomic
sophistication, it also makes England look undeniably shit for playing host to
such a diabolical venue. In that sense, what a stereotypical example of
efficiency it is.
Pretzels, the pride and joy of so many respected street food
vendors in German cities, were drier than a popcorn fart and overly dense. I
couldn’t lather on enough sweet mustard to make them anything less than a chore
to eat.
Yet this was only an amuse bouche for the bunkum to come - the sausage platter was even worse. The frankfurters, far left, tasted unashamedly
cheap, the hideously over salted kind that bear no relation to real meat,
have the texture of a cheap dildo, and would, in an ideal world, be consumed
only by naughty pets and David Bernstein. Those burnt, shrivel-dick things in
the middle are allegedly Nürnbergers, mini-sausages which are a kind of Teutonic chipolata. Similarly poor, they lacked the distinctive marjoram
flavour that typically characterises them.
Only
the bratwurst (above, top photo, far right) was bearable and even that’s being overly generous – not
actually enjoyable in any way, just marginally less bad than the other two
wieners. That the Bavarian Beerhouse is located on Old Street, mere metres from
the original outpost of Big Apple Hot Dogs, is the ultimate and cruellest
irony.
Accompaniments were a further nadir. Sauerkraut is never
going to be the most appealing food in my book and certainly will never win any
awards for texture, but this was an especially bad rendition: an insipid, watery mess
that didn’t really taste of anything, not even cheap vinegar. It could be the
same sort of stuff than lines the bottom shelves in your local corner shop,
though chances are if you live in London you could easily find something in the
Polish section that’s much, much better. Mashed potato had that distinctive dehydrated flavour and might have
also boasted a dubious origin: overly smooth slop of this ilk is usually either
the work of a Michelin-starred Frenchman and six tubs of cream or a packet of
Smash. Other than that, everything was fine.
Indeed, the selection of beer was actually quite good. Good,
but hideously overpriced. I’ve got no qualms paying £4.50 for a dunkel weiss,
but for a house lager it’s pushing it unless you’re a particularly swanky bar
or club, something - let’s face it - the Bavarian Beerhouse just isn’t. And
while those of us who like to sample more beers in smaller amounts are
accustomed to being hit with token, slap-on-the-wrist penalties for maintaining
the guise of moderation, £3.20 for a half is just ridiculous, criminal even,
like extraordinary rendition poured into a glass.
Sure, the beers are imported and it’s nice that they haven’t
gone with anything too predictable – Erdinger and Krombacher are both well
represented – but the mark-up is over and above anything that could be justified
without the employment of a firearm to the dissenting party’s head. It’s all a
bit of a mystery: normally places whose business practices tend to encourage
projectile vomiting at 3.00 a.m. do so by offering cheap alcohol. Here they
don’t just want you to max out your credit card but completely humiliate
yourself by wearing a cow hat and shoving tobacco up your nose as well. If there’s
any lingering doubt as to how tacky the Bavarian Beerhouse is, consider that I
was encouraged to have a shot of Jager as a digestif. To my mind, that says it
all, but I suppose if you've got more money than sense, an iron stomach, and little self-respect, it could be alright for a boozy night out?
Outside of the fact that there was, as promised, plenty of
beer, the staff are the venue’s only real redeeming feature and must contribute
to the apparent popularity of this second-rate alcoholic amusement arcade. The
dirndled out service is charming and hospitable and I have to applaud them for
not being completely jaded by the state of affairs at their workplace. I sincerely hope they get better food than the general public are served and and I know from years of experience the joys of dealing with the part
of the punting masses who make a game out of farting at the bar, puking in the
urinals, and slurring out seductive witticisms at your partner.
Maintaining a
sunny demeanour in the face of such shenanigans isn’t the easiest thing in the
world and shouldn’t be underestimated. I could be wrong - last orders here could
be the height of decorum, mild manners, and good etiquette - but I can’t really
imagine it’s much better of a Friday night than it is down the road in
Clerkenwell. So pleasant service would get the Bavarian Beerhouse a couple of
points if I played the rating game - but it wouldn’t come anywhere close to
redeeming it. I’m sure some North Korean gulags knock out alright kimchee, but
the overall dining experience would probably still leave a lot to be desired.
Given the part of town, maybe it’s all just really post-post-ironic
or something and I’ve seriously missed the point. Or maybe it really is a
cynical rouse that proves two unfair points - Brits are undiscerning drunkards
and culinary plebs, and Germans can’t go a day without pickled cabbage and
raucous sing-alongs. If so, it’s pretty damned effective: yet more humiliation
(isn’t the football enough?) heaped on the Inselaffes and – after a taste of
said lifeless sauerkraut – the unfaltering loyalty of any native silly enough
to have bought into such a plasticised version of the Fatherland.
Somewhere out there in the U.S., I imagine a still-bitter Francophobe
might be reading this and having a revelation. He will open a shitty
boulangerie in the heart of the Marais district – something that features spam
shoved into a stale baguette drowned in Miracle Whip – so that freedom loving
visitors to Paris can’t wait to get the hell back to Arby’s. If he’s genuinely
committed to getting one over on those damned surrender monkeys - and instructing
his fellow countrymen on the dangers of venturing too far across the county
line simultaneously - Mr Hoggreaser will surely consult the Bavarian Beerhouse
first, for very
few establishments make you rabidly crave the comforts of indigenous mediocrity
in this way. That’s me about to pop off to the local Nicholson’s pub for some
fish and chips – I hope it never seems this good of an idea again.
I was a guest of the Bavarian Beerhouse.
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