MASH Steakhouse - There's gold in them there basements - Dec 2012

After Brasserie Zedel, I thought we might have turned a corner in the 'restaurant-prices-like-phone-numbers' debate. A Regent Street restaurant with appropriately sky-high rents and rates offering top drawer scoff you'll struggle to spend £25 a head on. Surely everyone would be onto this?

Now the joint genius of restaurateur team Corbin & King manage this pricing at Zedel with few reservations, lots of tables and very high customer churn, turning tables three or four times a service generating many more, albeit smaller, checks.

So surely, applying that rationale, a similarly ambitious venue next door which has just undergone an equally sumptuous redesign in another vast subterranean space should (if they turn twice in a service) mean that things only cost twice as much? Sadly not. We're back to £100+ a head territory now, as next door neighbour MASH sells steak, and not much more.

The opulent (and obviously masculine) dining room feels designed to appeal to the international expenses crowd: without a view, you could easily be in Dubai, Chicago or Singapore instead of London. Deals are to be done here gentlemen... over steak, expensive wine and casual misogyny. That's a tad judgemental and almost certainly untrue but, being only a Rolex-throw from Mayfair, it is at least plausible.

It has a vaguely Mid West American inspired opulence, though my descriptor is as lazy as the broad theming. Call it essence of robber baron... Thick, plush, arterial-red carpets? "make 'em plusher". Gilded, glowing fittings? "make 'em golder". Bulging list of rare American varietals in a leather-bound list? "make 'em rarer, and add a zero on..."

The shock is that it's not American, but Danish. Despite channelling Smith & Wollensky or Chicago Cut, it comes from the land of stripped pine and Arne Jacobsen chairs. The only sign of this Scandinavian heritage on the menu came with a trio of Danish-origin 70 day dry-aged steaks. I'm not averse to the Stilton-like joys of aged steak, but a 45 day aged piece I had recently from the Ginger Pig bordered on overpowering at times, and anything getting close to 70 is going to be considerably and challengingly funky.

Diving straight in, bypassing a relatively uninspiring starter list, we shared a surprisingly petit USDA Prime Porterhouse. It was wheeled up to be carved on a butcher's block. I was hoping for a lot from an expensive if troublesome cut. Advertised as fit for two or three, in truth it was probably only enough for one and a half or two with sides and starters. The problem with porterhouse is that you have two different cuts, sirloin and ribeye, separated by the thick T bone. Lesser chefs risk missing the balance and pushing the sirloin to a med/well, or leaving unforgiving ribeye fat un-rendered. As far as steaks go, this was a good 'un. Rich, buttery and with a decently deep flavour, it did everything a good steak should.

Along with that hunk of prime meat, sides were measly for the price, and fine, generally just fine. Like supporting dancers in a meaty musical. Chilli fries came with a crunch and a crackle of heat, while a soothingly bland mac n cheese ticked our other carby box. You can't object to either, but at £4.50 a pop, I want to have the best darned carbs in the city.

With a cocktail before, a digestif and a one of the cheaper wines (the leathery New World spell book unsurprisingly offered little below £40), we managed to splash £225 for two, certainly more than I'd expected.

Tangentially, I remember being told by the International Man of Mystery, no stranger to the jet set, that this bland luxe internationalism is welcomed by many who spend half their lives in assorted high-end business hotels. "They want reassuringly expensive stuff they recognise, with the odd plain local speciality, because it's impossible to know how an authentic, highly spiced x, y or z is going to go down when you don't know which continent you're on and your body thinks that it's 4am..." With that in mind, MASH fits the bill perfectly. Just don't expect to see me back without the expense account.

Cote in the City and Mishkins - The Grumbling Gourmet goes solo - Oct 2012

I've never had a problem with eating on my own, partly because I'm lardy, and partly because I think that there's something perversely romantic about solo dining. Just you, the thoughts in your head and the flavours in front of you, with no distractions. The idea of sitting at the bar in a solo reverie makes me feel more like the be-hatted guy in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks than a lonely businessman refuelling after a long day. 

I've spent amounts of time travelling for work over the last few years and so have got used to it, now sitting at a random bar has become one of the highlights of a trip, particularly when the basketball is on. 

Cote St Pauls 

Surprisingly, given my thoughts on most chain restaurants, popping into a Cote brasserie for a bite to eat at the bar isn't an issue. I don't mind the Covent Garden and Soho branches, having used both as a passible lunch or afternoon meeting spot previously. However the one in the City doesn't have a bar, just a large basement space, and a set of tables along one wall, facing out into the main restaurant and occupied entirely by single, middle aged men. Before I realised my mistake it was too late. I'd been identified as one of them and led gently to be deposited in the arctic of solo dining. 

I'm not sure who was more on show; us or the inane works party we were facing. A works party dinner on a Tuesday night, oh what fun! I won't go into detail, suffice to say that they were definitely having a wilder time than the banquette of solo diners in silent judgement opposite. 

The menu is generic brasserie, the quality matches, tonight at least. I tried first for a steak hache, before being informed "we can't serve below medium rare I'm afraid..." glad at least that they acknowledge why they're unable to serve that simplest of brasserie dishes served at anything less than a medium rare (you're not allowed to serve at less than medium rare unless it's minced on the premises...), sad because it was all I was looking for. 

In the absence of home chopped steak I went for the onglet frites, served with a garlic butter and little else. Not bad. The solo diner in me couldn't complain at a single mouthful. Sure it wasn't the best steak i've eaten in my life, but nor was it meant to be. For the price, I could definitely have done with a thicker or more substantial slab. Served with a passible fruity Pinot Noir, it wasn't a bad experience, but the atmosphere leaves something to be desired for the solo diner. 

Mishkin's in Covent Garden 

It's been a while since i've popped into Mishkins, Russell Norman's Jew(ish) Covent Garden diner. If his other sites channel Venice or Brooklyn, then Mishkins wouldn't look out of place in the Lower East Side or the up and coming bits of New Jersey. It's a little louder and a little brassier than the others, and that's not necessarily meant in a bad way.

The beautifully designed 'found' space has settled in well, though you'll struggle to see anyone in the evening gloom. It'd be the ideal place to have a central London affair. I also had a slight quibble about the pounding baselines we're put through, but I'm probably the only one. Certainly the smiling staff don't seem to have a problem hearing. I put it down to my age, grateful for their pleasantries. I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. 

The ubiquitous tattoligan behind the bar is a friendly enough cove, more of an Eton Rifle than an Enfield Charger though. It takes guts to get a tattoo just to get a job, so one can only hope that double inked sleeves were part of a life plan prior to hearing about Russell Norman and his cheeky chain of diners. 

I started with corn dogs as good as I've had either side of the pond, beef franks encased in a grittily accurate coating of corn, served with a piquant tomato salsa. Desperately seeking carbs mid one of those weeks I went for a mac 'n' cheese to follow; a sizzling skillet full of all of the right ingredients. It's a dangerously dairy affair, ideal for two, but physically too much cheese for my British stomach. I didn't quite manage to finish it, and it was a solidly single noted affair that needed a salad or a spicy meat to loosen it up a bit. 

Other than the pumping tunes, is there any fault with the place? I have to say that the house Merlot was truly execrable, a surprise for these boys, but regardless of that, the lovely service and the comfortable food made me vow that it wouldn't be long before I sat at the bar again.

Karpo - A split personality in King's Cross... Mar 2012

Places like this are a gift to write about, if not necessarily one to share... Karpo is truly a bizarre little (big) place. 

If one were crazy enough to open a restaurant in London then it's fair to say that King's Cross wouldn't be the obvious place for i unless you were intent on proving your craziness to all and sundry. Despite the money being pumped into the area, it's going to be a while before anybody in their right mind heads there for anything other than the train station.

That being said, if you are going to open a new resto, it's important to stand out from the crowd. And one way to stand out, when you're surrounded by a million and one single item places around serving only burgers or only fried chicken or only subs or only sarnies, is to make sure you serve absolutely eeeeverything...

After some excellent lemon soused pickled veg and moreish (if teetotal) bourbon pecan nuts we greedily attacked the menu. There's a lot I like the look of, but very little that readily goes together as a meal. From an overly diverse selection of hot and cold starters we travelled from Britain to Finland via the Deep South. With the exception of an over plasticised Lobster Mac 'n' cheese, the other plates worked well, if not necessarily together. Southern Fried Quail was finger lickin' excellent, the oft dry bird protected and gamey flavours enhanced by a spicy, crispy crumb. Scandinavian style eel on a dark nutty rye was a silkily simple morsel perfectly executed as was a firm and rich British classic of brawn on toast.

I'd tried to match the Southern theme with a main of 'Shrimp and Grits'. Pleasant enough, it just wasn't as I'd expected. Traditionally served as a slightly looser mixture, the corn grits were here more like a firm toasted polenta cake, topped with four or five big plump shrimps and doused in a rich salty gravy. Not actively unpleasant, but neither was it entirely satisfying. The polenta came hotter than the sun, an unwelcome plating error. Other mains veered from Asian influenced fish, via Moroccan chicken through to North European potato pancakes. As I say, none of us had a bad meal, there just wasn't a central concept to hang it off.

Like the food, there's definitely a deal of thought gone into the design of the place, though it tries to be as all encompassing as the menu. The interior designer must have had an awfully challenging time. You can imagine the conversation over the mood boards. "Ok, I'm not sure on the menu concept, it looks like you're trying to offer a little bit of everything, which is great, so we could take the design from any number of these five different styles, which do you prefer?". "All of them... Let's have all of them. At the same time..."

There's Lower East Side concrete chic into Scandi furniture and an eco/sustainable herb wall, a British member's bar downstairs next door to a Hard Rock styled section with plectrum tables and wall mounted guitars and that's without mentioning the black, red and gold blinged bathroom suitable for an oligarch. Enough already, just don't come here with a headache...

Quirks also exist at the similarly schizophrenic Bob Bob Ricard, but there the design pulls it together perfectly and while the menu moves around, there's plenty you can make a great meal from. 

Neither Karpo's menu or decor really seem to know what they're trying to achieve currently, and to be honest neither do we, which is a shame, as there's definitely talent in the open plan galley kitchen at the back, focused too widely on an extensive range of disparate dishes. It's a pleasant enough meal, made good by excellent company, but there isn't anything else that'll drag me back here and I couldn't begin to describe it well enough to send anyone else.

Joe Allen - the theatrical old trooper of Covent Garden - Oct 2011

Where: Joe Allen, Exeter Street, Covent Garden
With who: The Daddy and Mr Pipes
How much: You're going to top £40 a head for 2 courses and drinks, though 'that' burger and chips is sub £15 all in...
Come here if: you can't get into The Ivy but want to hang out with the theatrical crowd.

There are a number of places I've been reticent to talk about. Not necessarily places with food hipster cred that I don't think you're cool enough for, but places I associate some form of insider ownership over, no matter how misguided or loose the connection. One such place is Covent Garden's Joe Allen. Still ludicrously popular with the staff of theatreland, it was such a go to at one point that I knew, and was known to, most of the front of house team by name. The popularity of that crowd comes with from the late performer-friendly hours, the proximity to the theatres of Covent Garden and the now famous 'secret' burger, allegedly designed to allow hard-up actors to eat with their wealthier friends post show.

Descend down the dark staircase into the basement space, bare brick walls covered in West End folio posters from shows currently on and those that are 30 year old. It's comfortable, clubby and always busy. Grab a drink at the long bar and listen to Jimmy the pianist hit a range of showtune standards on late week nights.

The menu is a dogs dinner of vague Americana and 70's oddities. It's hardly a thing of beauty, but guests can chose from a mash-up ranging from Caesar Salad, Chilli Con Carne and cornbread through to 70's relics such as chicken with orange sauce. The best advice I can give you is not to follow suit. The portions might be large, it's an American restaurant after all, but what I've sampled over the years has struggled to raise the bar beyond the pedestrian at best, and can be sub-TGI Fridays at it's worst.

Go for the burger. And only the burger. It's not on the menu, but don't feel bashful, everyone knows about it these days. It's a thick charred bombe of a patty served medium rare as standard housed within the soft sweet cathedral of a brioche bun. Good crispy bacon and melted (cheddar) cheese are a worthy accompaniment, as are the spears of gherkin served on the side. Add skin on fries, occasionally over salted but generally as good as these things can be, and serve with a side of salacious gossip, preferably about who's doing who in the current show you're working on.

Joseph Leonard, New York - June 2011

Where: Joseph Leonard and Fedora, West Village, New York 

With who: me, myself and I (and a great deal of pig)

It's a quirky and cosy two-level West Village pub that rapidly became a favourite on my recent trip to New York. Partly for the welcome, somewhat for the atmosphere but mainly for the most decadent piece of ham I've ever eaten.

With only seven tables, each the epitome of the ragged-rustic house style, and a slew of bar seating mean Joseph Leonard is an intimate space, perfect for solo diners such as myself propping up the zinc counter or a quiet dinner with close friends. 

A sign of the resolutely local restaurant, they don't take reservations, so get there early or you'll be hovering around the doorway waiting for someone to vacate their place. Tonight being Gay Pride in New York, and Joseph Leonard being situated opposite the Stonewall Tavern in the heart of the festivities, the crowd is a little on the camp side. Someone's gone all in on the stereo and the music tonight (I hope only for tonight) is utter cheddar.. Cindi Lauper into Chaka Khan into Bohemian Rhapsody went wrong...

It's a relatively small menu, no more than 5 or 6 items per course, focussing on seasonal American fare. The aforementioned pork hock is the permanent house speciality. I was briefly distracted by the interesting cheese and oyster selection, a European cheeseboard with a focus on the raw and oozy, but I put that down to hunger and no one other than the barman to talk to. 

Thankfully I didn't pay too much attention to my conversation with the barman, he tried to upsell me the appetiser of the day, a crispy fried medley of dark chicken meat. If I'd taken the bait, I'd have been in the hospital by now. See, the ham hock had been pre-identified as the must have dish, and I'm not a man to let 95 degree heat get between me and a leg of fried animal.

The speciality deep fried ham hock hits with the subtlety of a moreish, porky brick. It's cooked twice overnight, first in brine and then in pork fat before being deep fried. And my god is it satisfying. Served with a caper and a rocket salad that cut through with sharpness but do nothing to negate the salty kick of the hock. Best served with beer, lots of the stuff. Handy considering the selection at the bar, one might think the two were linked.

It isn't the most obvious combination, a bar / restaurant metro enough to feel like the girls of Sex & The City might drop by for lunch, with as macho a main course as I've ever had. New York, city of contrasts, town of meat...

Stumbling out of Joseph Leonard, flushed with the meat sweats and discombobulated. I felt like a chubby Brit who'd just ingested a week's worth of swine. I needed somewhere to go and drink / sleep it off. Luckily the team behind JL have taken over Fedora, a basement dive round the corner and turned it into a low ceilinged macho speakeasy. It has a small but successful cocktail list, and an old fashioned hit the spot perfectly. It has it's own menu, but after the challenge I'd just been through I didn't have the guts to check it out. I would however recommend it for pre or post-dinner drinks.

Spuntino - A studied slice of Williamsburg in Soho - Apr 2011

Where: Spuntino,Soho

How much: £50 for a good selection and a couple of glasses of wine
Come here if: you can get through the door

I came to bury, not to praise. After all, we don't really like a winner in this country, not if we’re honest. And particularly not one who manages to make it appear so effortless. We prefer those who huff and puff and manage to succeed almost despite themselves, like Kenny Dalgleish. So Russell Norman, already the proprietor of two massively popular and critically lauded Italian tapas joints (Polpo and Polpetto as you're asking) was really pushing his luck. And how does he do with the third? Yawn, damn near faultless again... How bloody dull.

This one's no bigger than the bathrooms in Spice Market, the hollow gilded cage of gaud currently parting stupid people and the idle rich from their readies in Leicester Square. And no, you won't find me reviewing it soon. I've already had a hollow chuckle at the pricing on its tired fusion menu and spent far too much for far too little in its New York sibling to fall for that trick again. Spuntino probably cost as much as one of the gold taps.

That's not saying it isn't designed. Norman really gets how important the look and feel of his joints is to the atmosphere. All have subtle similarities, but fit their homes like well worn hipster jeans. They peeled back the interior panelling on this old bottle shop on Rupert Street and allegedly found the most gorgeous open brickwork and Victorian tiling... Swine. A few architectural prints and oddities artfully thrown up and you’re done. The restaurant, if you can call it that, comprises 20 odd seats round a battered zinc bar that's been there for years (since opening last month). It looks beautiful. Passing Shoreditch design Nazis lie fitting and frothing on the floor outside. Grabbing a seat is a total lottery here though, no reservations mean little chance at busy times unless you’re prepared to watch and wait. Turn up as we did, a pair of Soho irregulars dubiously justifying a meeting on a late afternoon, go early (they open at eleven) or whistle for it, your call.

Like the others, there's a simple selection of wines by the carafe or the tumbler next to a short menu of mouth watering small plates on a paper placemat. Some of the dishes port across from the Venetian tapas roots of the other restaurants; a sweet and butter soft zucchini (more on the language in a bit), mint and chilli pizzetta with a moreishly crispy base wouldn’t look out of place on either menu, soft-shell crab is a favourite and there’s a small selection of different bruchetta. I was more interested in the transatlantic dishes featured. The Mac n Cheese arrived with the gents next to us, a hangover cure sent from heaven. Darkly crispy breadcrumb topped oozing cheese arrived in an enormous Staubb style pan. A steal for £8 and more than enough for one, though judging by the clash of forks next to us, not quite enough for two. We sampled the sliders, another obvious Americanism, this year’s I don’t know what (a Spanish themed version also appears on the menu of The Opera Tavern) and destined to be copied repeatedly and badly elsewhere. We took three from the selection of four; firm spicy sea-salty mackerel, salt beef with Lilliputian cornichons and small beef bombs, made further moist with bone marrow and cooked to a deep salmon pink precision within their coating of cheese, nestled into tiny white buns, chewy firm enough to stand guard against the mingling juices.

We’d also sneaked in a portion of chewy eggplant chips dipped into a fennel yogurt. Interesting, the cold fennel dip was a good twist, but not up there with Zucca’s, admittedly different, Fritti. Worth more than a mention though were the deep-fried olives for which I’ll turn to Mr Hugh Wright, proprietor of www.twelvepointfivepercent.com and as delightfully acerbic and well written gentleman as you’ll ever read. "Hot, bitter, salty anchovy-farced pellets of pleasure, laced for all I know with a sprinkling of crack in the crispy crumb encasing them." Words to make you smile.

Do try and come. It’s worth the (repeated) effort to slide into one of the fixed bar seats, and is in itself as effortlessly cool as the well drilled and friendly rockabilly bar team. So move over Paul Raymond, there's a new king of Soho.

 

Balans - Dec 2010

Where: Balans, SohoHow much: Starters for around £6, mains between £10 and £14Come here: any time of the day or night, for a true slice of Soho life


I bloody love Balans. I've been coming here for the last 10 years and feel at times like I've charted my age with the place. When I first came to London, I came here after a night's clubbing for a 4am burger or an 8am fry up, revelling in the fact it was still open and serving better than expected food at a time normally reserved for the plastic hot dog men. A little older and I was coming here for a cheapish (though it didn't feel so at the time) bite to eat with a date from its diner menu. Now it's the perfect spot for a meeting over brunch or an afternoon coffee before meeting clients. It's nothing special, but like thousands of Londoners over the years, it'll always be a place I'll go back to, regardless of any quirks.

The menu is exotic, quixotic and a little bit schizophrenic if I'm honest, much like the clientele on occasion, an odd mix of Soho habitues and a constantly changing crowd well worth a watch. If you've got friends coming in to London from out of town (and especially out of the country) it's a wonderful spot to recommend for people watching. They serve all sorts, so they've got used to catering to all sorts and there's almost no cuisine they don't cover. Starters range from quesadilla to crab cakes, with shredded duck spring rolls, foie gras terrine and smoked salmon blinis all making an appearance. Mains tread the same path with an (excellent) burger snuggling up alongside honey miso salmon, jambalaya and staples such as fillet steak, pie of the day and sausages and mash. It won't ever win an award for the food, but it's all done competently, even though service can be hit and miss. That being said, you don't come here for the food alone. As a go-to that's bound to work for pretty much everyone I'd certainly recommend it. Just go for the experience, sit at the front, and watch Soho go by.

A short review of Bodeans - July 2010

Where: Bodean's, Soho originally (and now also Clapham, Fulham and another couple)

I'm not quite sure why I'm putting a date against this one, and I'm certainly not putting people, the list would be way too long. Pretty much ever since I started working in Soho, the weak mid-morning cry of 'Bodean's?' on a Friday has been the dead giveaway of many a hangover. It's been there since 2002 pumping the area's media workers full of authentic(ish) BBQ treats and grumble as I may, I've got to say it does a pretty good job.

I'm not sure why BBQ, for that's what they serve, and serve well, is the ideal cure for the self inflicted wounds of school night drinking, but it's generally held that the hot and greasy will somehow make you feel better (see other exhibits here, the fry up, fish and chips, the Sausage and Egg Muffin and the bacon sandwich) at least in my version of the world. Similar to hair of the dog, there's the idea of a restorative shot of flavour, salt and some form of pork product will bring you back to normality.

The decor falls somewhere between sports bar and diner, long high communal tables in the middle, a full size fibreglass cow and TV screens everywhere. The downstairs resembles the kind of country club you'd expect to find in Happy Days. They have laminated menus and a selection of chipotles on every table, a witches brew of different condiments to anoint your meat. In short, it's not an ideal spot for a first date... unless he/she really likes meat.
Pay at the counter,grab your ticket and wait for them to holler your number (downstairs is waiter service, see, I told you it was like a posh country club). Your food is served on a plastic tray with a liner to soak up the juices. The few sides offered (fries, gherkins, slaw as you'd expect, beans come studded with more pig) are nothing special, just necessary to break up the monopoly of the main ingredient. Skip the burgers and 'salads' too. The first because you can get much better locally and the buns really don't measure up, the second because it's a BBQ restaurant. Man (or woman) up, the clue is in the title...

So how's the meat? That is after all the reason we're here right? Several species roost / roast here, chicken, beef (brisket) and pork, both ribs and 'pulled' pork shoulder. All cooked long and low in their oak smoked BBQ pit (disclaimer, never seen the pit, though would like to...) I've always been a fan of pulled meat, it's a simple concept that brings a real tenderness to some of the most surly and taciturn cuts. By marinading and roasting low for 8 or 9 hours you get the recalcitrant strands of muscle to fall apart into a juicy stringy mass. The South Americans use it as carnitas, served spicy with salsa and guacamole. Those north of the border prefer theirs slavered in vinegary BBQ sauce. 


This all comes in various combinations, all with sides, mostly under or around a tenner. The one sandwich I would think worth including is their inspired Soho Special, a heady mix of beef brisket, salty spicy 'que sauce and pulled pork which embraces the poor quality soft white bun like garments from its trailer trash roots and gets to work on your hangover / hunger in the manner of a character from a Johnny Cash song. 
Nothing Bodean's does will win fine dining awards. And they don't necessarily care. It's a simple, down to earth and relatively cheap spot. But they serve you more meat that you can cope with, and you cover it with a zingy chipotle sauce and after a long time chewing, you smile a simple meaty greasy smile and immediately lower your eyes to the rest of the plate, resolving that this time, definitely this time, you won't be beat.

Eating the World Cup - England v USA June 12

Where (in South Africa): USA v England, Rustenburg, Sat June 12, score 1-1 (poor sad Robert Green..)
Where (in London): For preference, Hawksmoor or Goodman, though I do look forward to trying the Soul Food Kitchen soon and you can't argue with a Bodean's BBQ fix.


Now if you follow the hypothesis of Matthew's rather lovely blog - It Ends With Dovi - and I advise that you do, it seems it must possible to eat the food of any nation in London. While Americans might not be as well served as the Italian, Indian or Chinese ex pats, I had assumed there must be some places they could get the taste of home. Expectation overpowers actuality. While there are lots of foodstuffs one associates with the States (the two best known examples are burgers and the simply served steak, while others may throw out chowders, tex mex and soul food), American cuisine is by definition a fusion of imigrants doing their best with the flavours of a recently settled nation. There are actually very few authentically 'American' restaurants to chose from.
There are however, vast numbers of steakhouses and burger joints that populate our fair city and some of these are worth some explanation here (with links to the restaurants and reviews where they exist).


The humble burger
There are some great examples available in London, including the best burger I've eaten outside the US (and possibly only second to In 'n' Out), the Classic Cheeseburger at Lucky Seven in Westborne Park Road. Other fine exponents include the off-menu brioche bun at Joe Allen (off menu, so the story goes, to avoid embarrassing the actors who can't afford to eat as much as their friends) and the near legenday Meatwagon (head over to Ibzo's messianic post here. He's a man who appreciates meat as much as me and sums it up very well. The last time the wagon rolled up at the Florence in Herne Hill, there were hour long queues. I blame it on Twitter...). The other two of real note are Hawksmoor and Goodman, more of which below.
On steak
Likewise, we're well served with steak, that other staple of American dining. Hawksmoor (my review here) is top of the list for me still, but recent experiences at Goodman (my review here) and Maze Grill prove there's stiff competition in this sector. All three do excellent burgers as well, though that's not really what you're there for... I'd avoid the Black and Blue chain (my review here) unless you're absolutely desperate, the other three are infinitely better and it almost goes without saying that you should never, ever walk into an Angus Steakhouse, unless you have to dine with someone you really dislike. 

The Diners
Where the diners exist, they're often just chain burger joints, and a real mixed bag, rather than the working class temple to short order chefs seen and expected across the states (see my review of New York's Viande for photos). There are none that standout as being exceptional, though I do have happy memories of boozy milkshakes at The Diner in Ganton Street. Exceptions
There are a few exceptions. The 'family-friendly' New Orleans 'themed' Big Easy in Chelsea is populated by teenage Sloanes and banker's with their young families neatly combining a large number of my dining prejudices, (or predjudi?). I have similar distain for the faux Tex Mex of the Texas Embassy on Trafalgar Square after an awful press night there. We have the tasty Bodeans BBQ restaurant chain, perfect for a Friday lunchtime 'Soho Special' (hot pulled pork and burnt beef brisket ends in a slightly too sweet BBQ sauce served in a sloppy bun). The other interesting option is Brondesbury's Soul Food Kitchen, Transport for London have transpired twice to keep me from it, but I will be trying the fried chicken, cornbread and mac and cheese (a vastly underrated carb-filled goldmine) soon.