I'd already done myself some serious damage the night before, my liver was quietly hugging the naughty step above my empty stomach, which for some reason was not crying out for mercy, but in a game of oneupmanship against my poor quivering liver, was still wearing it's game face and wanted fat juicy slabs of meat dripping between two buns.
My stomach grumbled whilst I told it I didn't think there was anywhere adequate enough I could treat it for the amount of noise it was making.
Now, my sniffling nose couldn't take a queuing, not in this winter weather, not on your nelly. More than 5 Guys in a line to get in to a joint? No, not for a burger!
Nor could my sallow, Christmas partied out skin take a drying out, whilst sitting in view of a lamp as hot as Byron Bay heating burgers under a serving hatch.
Oh but, yes. Hachè. Bless You.
If a burger is what my stomach wanted, then fine, I conceded. With quite a fine solution. Her upstairs- the brain tutted and turned the light off, turning over loudly, sighing something about turmeric and kale juice, but gave in with a- "Oh do make sure it has cutlery, linen napkins perhaps, nice lighting and gentle electronica, from the early two thousands; Royksopp maybe, even panpipes will do, I can't take anything challenging that East London has to offer", said my brain akin to a picked gherkin.
Speaking of which, with that I took the compendium of my failing body off to Clapham to be embraced in the civil suburbs where it's no big deal to part with £2 for the aforementioned dill and sit my aching tired spinal column in a sympathetically lit, Hachè.
Our server's pink flower in her lapel made me feel rather like I was at a 90's wedding fair, whilst being confidently reassured throughout taking my preposterous order gracefully. Peanut butter!? On my burger?
"Yeah that's fine, of course you're not going to upset any of the other guests if you put a slice of Bavarian smoked cheese on the 'Louisiana', it'll just compliment it. Highly acceptable, sophisticated even, served on very grown-up ciabatta with ever elegant rocket and an always ungimicky sturdy slice of beef tomato, piqued with but an uncontroversial slice of raw, red onion. Boisterously Enormous battered onion rings? Babe, it's just sculptural affinity next to the deconstructed bun."
Is what I imagined she, the waitress gently soothed. But, no she didn't really, I just mustered the energy to mumble and point at the menu and she duly wrote it down, next to- and my calves will never forgive me, The words, Oreo Milkshake to wash it down.
The ambience is upmarket but inoffensive, feminine even, like a perfectly pretty Parisian bistro, with chains of fairy lights, then repeated several times around London. These chaps certainly tip their Chapeau to French Steak Hachè. I wanted to recreate a La Marais experience I once had and ordered mine rare, but it was disappointingly served quite cold as I recall the then, Parisian waiters temperament was.
Still, with my grumbling stomach now groaning, my liver woke up from it's time out and gestured towards the rather fine wine list. With that I took all the pieces left of my recovering self and got them home before I could do anymore damage. read more