FEAR AND LOATHING IN HACKNEY WICK AND POSSIBLY THE WORST MEAL OF MY LIFE
POSSIBLY THE MEANEST RESTAURANT REVIEW EVER
AND ALSO, THE MOST ACCURATE - BARGE EAST TERRACE, HACKNEY WICK
Because I had a little time on my hands, because we are all a little bored, and because I dont want you dying from food poisoning, here is my restaurant review of this year's worst meal out.
Barge East Gardens and Terrace - Restaurant Review
Once an urban sprawl of wrecker’s yards and drug dens, Stratford has undergone a dramatic transformation since the siting here of Olympic Park and the Poundland-Knightsbridge hell that is Westfield Shopping Centre.
Barges of infinite crusty variety clog the oily river Lea which is bounded by artfully-grafittied warehouses, anonymous gyms and chain restaurants. Welcome Young Urban Professionals, it says with a big brightly-painted, primary-colour Banksy smile. Welcome to Hell.
“Gentrifcation”, which now translates as “overpriced homes for the urban wage slave” has pushed out most of the roadmen, the destitutes and the thieves, yet a new breed of thief has found a cosy home here. I am speaking of Barge East Gardens and Terrace “restaurant”.
Rookie mistake I know; the moment you smell chipotle and aioli, the moment you see the words “pulled” and “pork”, you know it’s hipster KFC for half the price of a new pair of shoes. Still, I was hungry. The sun was shining. How much could you fuck up a sunny lunchtime? Quite a lot it transpired.
A wedge-cut oaf in shorts and black polka dot socks – important signifiers of late-stage hipsterism for those too old and impressionable to realise being a hipster was fashionable twenty years ago – greats me with holiday-camp enthusiasm, and demonstrates the app I need to use to order a burger. It takes us ten minutes. There are four things on the menu and I already know which one I want. Does this save us time? No. Is it healthier? No. Can they now farm my data? I think so.
Despite the clumsy slowness it takes my fat fingers to app-in my order, my chicken burger arrives within two minutes, born aloft with scornful indifference by a wolfish young guy with the attitude of someone impatient for his serving shift to end so he can go back to murdering people.
Two minutes! That’s quicker than MacDonalds. I’m not even sure you could microwave a chicken burger that quickly. Microwaved though is kind of how it tastes.
The chicken itself is a pallid grey in colour, slippery in texture, wrapped in about an inch of rubbery fetid herby breadcrumbs. This gelatinous meat may have been undercooked or it may have been reconstituted thigh, but you could be confident your food would definitely SLIP down. And then maybe back up again. I wondered if perhaps I had ordered the slug burger by mistake.
And so onto my not-chips. Chips being too quotidian for late-stage hipsterism, these unappealing mysterious fat wedges tasted of maybe quinoa and hamster poo, possibly sweet potato and avocado, or perhaps polenta and squirrel jizz. I guess we will never know. Maybe we don’t want to know.
I sat with a desecrated plate looking disconsolate for 15 minutes without so much as a raised eyebrow from the staff. Not wishing to be murdered, or have to argue the toss, I left a rude note and departed, sad and hungry and my wallet £18 lighter.
However all was not lost as I later received a patronising, passive-aggressive email informing me of the Eat out discount I had “failed to apply” and expressing disappointment that I had dared to write a note describing the food as repellent. Could I offer feedback? Yes I can - Your food is disgusting and so is your attitude. Did I receive a further refund? No I didn’t. Eighteen quid!?! Before gentrification I imagine you could probably have negotiated a blowjob at that price in this neighbourhood, and you probably would have left a less unpleasant aftertaste behind you than Barge East managed with this plateful.