It is in a spirit of nostalgia that I write this post, for I write about something that no longer exists. Something ephemeral, fleeting and over far too soon. Dear reader, I am of course talking about that phenomenon, the pop-up.
Not just any pop-up though, oh no, a pop-up that pulsated with life and attracted a horde of loyal followers. Alas, I came to Meateasy far too late, with time enough in my stupidly hectic calendar to go only once before it closed. But, oh, what a 'once' that was.
(It is at this point that I must make a disclaimer. You know the idea that a picture is worth a thousand words, or something along those lines? Not in this case, the pictures are truly dreadful, taken in semi-darkness on a phone, so please, let my words be your guide rather than pixels.)
I had heard tell of queues of over two hours to get in, as no bookings are taken, like some kind of initiation task - have you earned your place at a table? Do you REALLY want this burger? Do you? DO YOU? - so I prepared a timetable that National Rail would be proud of, specifying almost to the minute when and where I would be meeting my dining companion so that we could charge to the Goldsmiths Tavern in New Cross to be at least in the first half hour of the queue. It turns out that at just past six on a Wednesday, there wasn't much of a queue, just us. Ace.
After an awkward moment with the door (me not being able to open the door, noticing a doorbell, "Ring Here for Meateasy", just like a proper speakeasy! No answer of course, I just can't open doors), we made our way upstairs, following the sound of rockabilly to a large room, decked out in mismatched furniture, standard lamps with customised shades and a few rococo mirrors. It could have been someone's living room, albeit with a fabulous bar in the corner that wouldn't have looked out of place in a swish gastropub. Or a really awesome living room.
After receiving our instructions on the ordering process from one of the smiling Burgerettes, we found a table and devised a strategy for the next stage - you get the drinks, I'll get the food. Boom, we were on fire. My bespoke rum cocktail, an Orange Swizzle, all refreshing and dangerously quaffable, arrived in a jam jar:
A brilliant recycling idea, although I do wonder how much jam they must eat...
Alerted to my time-slot for ordering by the honking loudspeaker (certainly an efficient method on noisy evenings, but it kept making me jump), we chose from the menu that had been written on the walls - one cheeseburger, one bacon and cheeseburger, fries and onion rings. All for about £20, which is not bad in this 'ere day and age.
Minutes later, our food arrived on paper plates - no namby-pamby cutlery here thanks, this is all you need at Meateasy:
Kitchen roll. What a genius idea. So much better than flimsy paper serviettes out of those frustrating dispensers - diners everywhere, take note.
The onion rings were unlike anything I'd ever seen. I always thought that I quite liked onion rings, now I discover that I have been eating a pale imitation of the real thing. Crisp and airy, the batter on these bad boys was so light, they almost felt healthy. And the size of them!
What beautiful beasts, like savoury doughnuts. Ah, the memories...
Enough of this waffling though, we all know that it's all about the burger. Or should I say The Burger:
Unlike most commercially available patties, whether from a bar, a pub, a restaurant, whatever, this was the only one I have tasted that had the flavour of a homemade burger. Cooked to pink perfection, the meat spoke for itself and its quality sang out. We are talking proper, glorious BEEF here. Argh, I kid you not, my mouth just watered then. The plain white bun was soft and unobtrusive, a carby background to support the full load of meat, cheese, pickles and salad. Meateasy makes it look so easy (ha, a pun), you wonder why so many other places get it wrong.
Yet now I must wait for my next Meateasy burger. Like so many others, I will be patiently stalking the Twitter feed, on the alert for any hint of a return, hoping against hope that it will magically be this evening, this week, this month. No doubt, on that first night, the place will be heaving and I can tell you now, I won't be politely ringing a doorbell, I'll be blasting my way in with a battering ram.
