Bavarian Beerhouse, Old Street

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.