33 euros for a fucking burger...

Many years ago when I was at primary school we visited an old church in (I think) Nothumbria. There was a carving of what looked like an imaginary fruit. On querying this we discovered that it was a carving of a pineapple. However, the carver had only ever read descriptions of pineapples, he’d never actually seen one, and as such it bore no actual resemblance to anything that you or I would recognize as a pineapple.

I was reminded of this today, having had a slight diary related day identification issue. I thought it was Friday (actually it was Thursday) and as such I trotted over to place la Madelaine to try and find @lecamionquifume who, for reasons that ought to be evident wasn’t there.

Still, having set off in search of a burger and being hungry I was looking for somewhere to eat. Wandering the streets of one of the posher bits of Paris I found myself looking at a menu at a place called Bread and Roses.

My eyes were drawn to their 33 euro cheese burger. Yep, 33 fucking euros. I actually returned to the menu three times, as each time I walked away, the rational bit of my brain refused to believe that anywhere that wasn’t on a luxury yacht could have the audacity to sell a burger for 33 euros.

Finally after a short amount of twitter conversing (thank you @eatlikeagirl and @ginanacrumpets) I decided that for shits and giggles it needed sampling.

Inside Bread and Roses was a little like wandering into a luxury boutique run by amateurs, there was a counter at the back selling the sort of couture pastries that plague Paris like a fungal infestation, the front contained a small service bar (zinc topped, of course) and a host of closely spaced tables.

The maître d, sensing that the unshaven n’eer do well with whom he was talking was only interested in eating, sat me at the bar.

One incredibly badly poured bottle of imported Guinness later (the other options were Bud, Corona or Carlsberg) I ordered my burger. To their credit I was asked how I wanted it cooked. Saignant, and that is how it arrived.

There, I’ve said the nice things, now I can get onto the wrongness.

The burger arrived with bun half on, a wooden spear cleaving the toasted topping, the lower half accented with cheddar (of a reddish hue), shredded lettuce, thick tomato slices, then the patty.

The patty was odd, thin and irregularly formed, I got the impression that the beef was probably very good, but fillet or another top end cut (I regard chuck steak as being the burger cut d’excellence, the connective tissue being minced into a mélange of happy tastiness that can then melt under cooking), it was a trifle thin and very under seasoned, adding to this was the fact that it was cooked on a grill/pan that was too cool and as such it had very little maillard/caramel related flavouring.

Above the patty was the most contentious of additions, a sort of creamy oniony mushroomy sauce/duxelle, now I like mushroom sauces as much (possibly more) than the next man, but there is no place for them in a burger (I will return to the issue of things being where they shouldn’t later).  A fried egg, actually an excellently fried egg, both yolk and white in the most perfect of fried conditions. Unfortunately they were on a fucking burger not a slice or two of nicely fried back bacon.

An aside:

I fucking hate potato wedges, when dealing with fried potato products it’s a matter of surface area versus volume. The surface area is where the taste (and salt adhesive potential) resides. Potato wedges call to mind ill advised health drives, and sorry but I don’t order burgers when I’m feeling like being healthy, try to reduce the calorific intake of my burger and I will politely tell you where to shove it. Well my (33 euro) came with shitty potato wedges.

Looking around the room, I was far from the only person eating the burger. However I was the only person trying to do so with it in my hands. Queue several repeat requests for more napkins as, first the egg yolk, then the creamy mushroomy oniony imposter started to ooze all over my appendages.

Being in Paris, I couldn’t just fell ill afterwards, I needed to come face to face with the full on nausea of self identification. Well, staring at a bill for £42 quid for a few beers and a bad burger brought it all on. The horrible sensation of needing to look at ones self in a mirror, knowing that you’d delegated decision making to twitter, that you’d contributed to some downright fuckwits take home pay, but even more than that, knowing that ones simple act of purchase had added to some chef/proprietors self belief in his misguided burger mission.

A resounding 2 out of 5, which is particularly galling because all the ingredients were obviously of quite a high quality.

As I mentioned earlier, it brought to mind how I imagine a burger made by someone who’d only ever read about burgers might try to make one.

Oh and 33 euros is wrong (very fucking wrong)