On Friday night, I went on a bar crawl. No, this was not for fun – not for fun at all. It was pure business, I can assure you: research for upcoming reviews for the World’s Best Bars. It’s a tough job, but… oh wait, I’ve said that before…
But since I needed to be sober enough to actually remember the places afterwards, I decided to try and kill two birds with one stone and head to The Butcher for a burger, after which the plan was to negotiate my way past the too-glamorous-to-work-in-a-burger-bar door people into the fabled speakeasy. Only it wasn’t that simple. I’d heard you needed a password. It turned out you needed a reservation instead. And no amount of “but I’m a journalist” would persuade them otherwise. Well, fair enough, I suppose, but it felt like the wrong kind of exclusivity…
Meanwhile, I was still hungry, so I ordered the truffle burger and chips and cut my losses. It was big and alcohol-absorbing, which I suppose was the idea, although the bun was airier and more squishable than it first appeared (which was probably a good thing because it appeared to be huge). The meat was a little more well done than I’d have liked, but was topped with a super-sized dollop of black truffle paste. I think I’d have preferred it with slightly less, and slightly whiter, truffle and slightly more other flavours from various sauces. But that might just be because of my love-hate relationship with truffle.