Bleecker

There are two kinds of burgers in this world: the posh kind (neat, relish-y, found on gourmet pub menus) and the fairly dirty kind (juicy, greasy, found on ‘Man v Food’). Oh, and there’s a secret third kind. The Bleecker. It’s pure filth.

Don’t get me wrong – that’s a compliment. Made with rare-breed, dry-aged beef, there’s no compromise on quality here, and Bleecker has definitely honed its craft. It put in years building mad hype on the street-food circuit before opening this, its first bricks-and-mortar shop. There’s no bullshit about these burgers; they’re just bun, cheese and killer pucks of meat.

Take the award-winning ‘Bleecker black’: two pink patties sandwiching a slice of black pudding. The beauty of this burger is its intensity – you can really taste the metallic tang of blood in that pudding. It’s not for the faint-hearted.

In fact, the only thing that stops the Bleecker black from being totally life-changing is that it’s almost monotonously rich; serious carnivores might disagree, but a bit of salad or sauce would give it a welcome lift.

The same goes for the bacon cheeseburger. It was an oozing, meat-eater’s dream, but definitely benefitted from zingy dollops of ketchup and mustard. Bleecker’s ‘angry fries’ are an ideal accompaniment – drizzled in blue cheese and hot sauce, with a serious zesty punch. And if you’ve got a sweet tooth, don’t miss the soft-serve vanilla and Valrhona chocolate milkshake.

Given the inevitable, crippling post-scoff food coma, you should come hungry and eat fast. The space isn’t exactly cosy: all black walls and ’00’s R&B, there’s just 12 stools inside – perfect for luring you in, and then kicking you right back out again. It’s quick and dirty – just the way I like it.