So I’ve been having an affair for a few weeks with a bloke from Cardiff.
He wanted to meet in Brewdog, as their beer is world-class, and the burgers are supposed to be interesting too.
But the beer is very strong, so by the time he arrived, my two halves of 8%+ beer had taken me well beyond the “Dutch Courage” stage, and everything was looking very woozy.
It’s pretty trendy in here, in the modern way, so the furniture is all reclaimed junkyard shit, scuffed tables, church hall chairs, and that.
Their “Who Cares?” attitude continues to the kitchen where a Food Hygiene rating of 1 – “Major Improvement Needed” – implies they wee in the toilets rather than in your food, but they don’t wash their hands after.
But by now I’d had the Hardcore IPA (double IPA, 9.2%) and the Jackhammer (7.2%, but surprisingly more hoppy with grapefruit notes) so I was feeling pretty up for it.
My date for the evening arrived, and had the water (partly seeing the state two drinks had got me in, partly so his wife wouldn’t smell the booze later).
I ordered the Dixie Burger (£9.25 – does it whistle?) and he had the Scottish Dawg (£8).
I also ordered the beers for with my food – the Alice Porter (5.2%, easy going), Green Gold (7%, very upfront IPA) and Anchor Christmas Ale (5.5%, like drinking rye)
All went a bit hazy as the food arrived.
Brioche bun – sweet, soft, nice. Though everyone brioche now.
Chips were a bit cold, skin-on and OK. The coldness killed them.
The burger was soft, tasty, but somehow, not that special.
Open the bun, and there’s chilli. but it’s not that sloppy. Menu said “sloppy”, and it’s not. I feel sloppy. And sleepy. But the beans give it a different taste and texture, and I’m noisily impressed.
Not a huge portion, either, but it’s tasty bad food for when you’re being a bad girl.
Wow, the Rye beer is like drinking bourbon. A sipping beer.
Menu says both “sloppy” and “filling” and I suppose it is. Not much mustard or cheese, though. And says it’s like a Summer Fling. Yes, really. Fucking hipsters, of whom there are a few in here, beards, what is that all about?
My dinner date’s Scottish Dawg contains a great frankfurter.
Smoky and full of flavour, like the ones cooked over the fire at the German Market last Christmas.
It’s even meaty. Things are looking up.
Brewdog are VERY proud of the “tats”, not the tattoos the punters will soon regret, but cubes of deep-fried mashed potato.
Should be like super chips, but these were too soft and lacking in flavour. And seasoning. Hotel buffet hash browns, but smaller. Boring, like that stupid pig opposite me.
And so much tomato ketchup. Am I a child? Am I? I do feel a bit sicky, but I think that’s more my fault.
I go for a look at the beer menu, can I manage one more?
That’s a lot of beer.
A lot of strong, tasty beer. It’s madness not to try one more.
I realise I can’t, and totter back to our table.
But now it’s just my table, as my date has gone.
I clomp down the stairs – all bleak post-industrial chic – and use the bathrooms that have recently been carefully-crafted to look old fashioned.
Refreshed, I find a pinball machine, but can’t get it working.
As the photo shows, it says “Game Over”.
I can take a hint.
In a corner is a TV with games console, so I chat to the nice young men for a bit.
Whatever else happened, Brewdog gave me a good evening.
The food is much less inventive and interesting than their beers. You go there to drink, and if you get hungry, you can have something to eat.
I wouldn’t go there to eat, and I’m not sure I’ll be going there again after the incident, but that barman was nice, a bit loud, and beard, natch, but, sometimes, oh dear …
Christ, look at all the ways you can get in touch with them!
They must be communicating all the time. Glad it was just phones when I was a girl. Tinder will be the death of me.
Sun – Wed 12pm to 11pm
Thurs 12pm to 11.30pm
Fri – Sat 12pm to 12am
Edit PS Seems to have changed a bit since respected Cardiff blogger GourmetGorro went. They had plain baps and better patties for less money.