What more can be said about burgers? That now ubiquitous food that has swept through the streets, appearing in every restaurant, every market, and everything in between. Don't mistake me, I like burgers. I've eaten many - many good, many bad, and still have many more to go in London alone. I've just run out of words for them, and I think others have too. At their best, they're rare, juicy, flavoursome, often sweet, accompanied by great tasting condiments, sauces, or other that light up tastebuds; at their worst, they're grey, soggy, stale, smothered in limp lettuce, and drowned beneath cheap ketchup. Surely that's enough?
I can't then comment much on the burger at MEATmission. That's my fault, not theirs. It was a burger. Cooked well, of a good size, and definitely not soggy. Perfect for one of our party who relished the thought of a burger, fries, 'genuinely real' Coca-Cola, and presumably the shinny booth we sat in as well - to complete the American look. Not that MEATmission is Yankee themed, but a burger is American to anyone from outside of London.
The unassuming door to MEATmission betrays any hint of what lies within, to the point where, if it weren't for the large luminous letters, you'd be forgiven for thinking the place closed. Inside, the illuminated imitation stained glass ceiling creates dark corners where diners hide, smearing their faces with some of the messier burger options on the menu, and swigging from litre+ jugs of beer and cider. The bar is a spider-like forged metal monster, crazily disorientating with the number of taps that hang from it. Essentially, it's Shoreditch distilled in to a single venue.
And needless to say, MEATmission has to be experienced, if only for that ambience.
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