Adobo

Let’s get this out of the way first: Adobo is an annoying name for a restaurant. It doesn’t sound like a film about a small boy’s relationship with a wild animal like Freebird, or provide the clanging tongue-satisfaction of Chilango. No: it sounds like it would smell of patchouli and sell knickers made of hemp.

But instead, it deals with another kind of tongue satisfaction: selling very nice burritos. I knew the burritos were very nice before I travelled to Holborn where Adobo’s abode abides, because I’d been there previously – but I was in a bit of a bad mood and decided to try again when I had nicer things to write about.

This time, I went with the owl, @Wowser, but unfortunately he was in a bit of a bad mood too. Maybe it’s all Adobo’s fault, but let’s assume not.

With commendable honesty, Adobo have resisted the urge to label their two sizes of burrito ‘Gigantic,’ and ‘Gigantic plus,’ in the manner of McDonalds, instead sticking to the traditional ‘small’ and ‘large.’

Even better, Adobo’s idea of small is most places’ idea of large, so they’re both honest AND generous. If Adobo was a man, it would be Moses or Jesus. Or maybe Noah. The final bit of good news came when I discovered that Adobo’s burritos are just £4.50 after 5pm, down from the usual £5.80 for regular and £4.80 for small.

At least, it would have been happy if I hadn’t discovered this at the till after ordering a small burrito to save money. Damn my very eyes! (Although I looked afterwards and couldn’t see any signs about the offer, so it wasn’t really my eyes’ fault.)

As it was, a small burrito was plenty, and plenty delicious, to boot. Although they offered brown rice (bloody hippies), I went for the traditional cilantro-flavoured white rice, then the usual chicken, black beans, sour cream and cheese. I also added a bit of sweetcorn relish, as my monthly nod towards eating some vegetables.

Not a small one. My phone ran out of battery, so this is the large one from my first visit. And a beer. Mmm, beer.

The service was friendly, although Wowser was disappointed at the lack of blatant flirtation which had made our visit to Chilango such a hit. He also pointed out that the presence of meatball burritos and chorizo on the menu wasn’t very authentic, but I just ignored him on the grounds that a meatball burrito would probably be lovely and chorizo is ace.

Two types of sauce were on offer, which made me very happy – the usual orangey hot one, and a very nice gloopy brown one, which Wowser described as ‘Mexican HP’. It was absolutely delicious.

My burrito was juicy but not too juicy, with nicely-done, flavourful chicken, and generous portions of everything in all the right places. Sweetcorn salsa is always a delicious addition too, and will stop me getting scurvy. Thanks, corn! 

Wowser’s burrito was a bit leaky, leaving water puddling in his tin foil wrap, which was a bit weird. We thought at first maybe the burrito was crying, but then realised it was probably the fault of overly watery pinto beans.

Overall, I was much more impressed than the owl, but then I invented the word ‘burrista’ and he didn’t, so who do you trust more, hmm?

Mood before: ‘Kay

Mood after: ’Kay. Full. 

Rating: Food 7/10, Ambience 6/10, Staff 7/10, Value 10/10 after 5pm, 8/10 before.

Where: 87 High Holborn, London UK, W1CV 6LS

Closest tube: Holborn.

Web: Find them here /@AdoboMexican

Recommended?: Yes, especially after 5pm.

Dos Toros (NY, US)

As you will know if you’ve read how it all began, you’ll know that this blog started when I went to New York for work and had a delicious Chipotle burrito. But that isn’t the full story. It was, in fact, @Nexeus , who I met while I was working, who told me to go to Chipotle in the first place. It’s all thanks to him (unless you’re my waistline, in which case it’s all his fault). And now, taking the blog into INTERNATIONAL, SUPER-GLAMOROUS TERRITORY, he has kindly written a guest blog about another New York burrito joint…

To say I’m the inspiration and the reason this blog exists is an understatement. I remember when the cute writer from the UK sat across from me at a bar/restaurant in Union Square, when our conversation quickly turned to food. We then stumbled upon the question of lunch.

“Chipotle!” I exclaimed!

“But I-”

“Chipotle!!”

“Where do-”

“CHIPOTLE!!! What is there to understand, just go and get one dammit!!” I said as I slammed my fist down, the room suddenly focused on me.

There was a pause before the room jumped up and performed the celebratory Chipotle burrito dance. Okay, well the conversation didn’t happen in that style, but it was damn close.

A few days ago, Mullies sent me a tweet saying, “Do you see what you’ve done to me?!” I smiled happily at the screen as I noticed she had created this blog as an ode to the burrito. I find it funny how the pure reason she came to New York was to meet me, the NY master of the burrito (or maybe it was some fashion show…), and became inspired to create this loving burrito memoir. 

Since that warm summer day, we have become burrito lovers, which I hope doesn’t interfere with her current relationship. However, out of our love of all this burritos, I felt it my duty to provide a guest post from the Land of the Free, and the Home of the Burrito (or something like that!)

Clearly, in both my and Mullies’ travels, the Chipotle burrito is the best burrito known to man (or our mouths). I find it interesting, how good this fast food chain, has some of the best Mexican food I’ve ever had. I’m told that, due to their different standards of Burrito making, England is filled with grumpy people who mull around the streets all day, because their Burritos are so low of standard.

You can trace the origin of Burrito’s to Mexico, and the current day standard from the American South-West (Texas, New Mexico, Arizona) and west (California), which share a border with Mexico. Where to get a burrito has become a standard, one that California has invented.

A burrito place isn’t a large fancy place with seating, but a small spot where you get the burrito you want, by choosing your meat, seasoning, and place the delicious wrapped heaven in your mouth. The ambiance of the place is basic, some Hispanic music playing in the background (usually Salsa, or Mexican), with wooden or simple metal tables where you can eat the beautiful burrito and grab onto them as the feeling of ecstasy rushes over you. Yes, you’re welcome for that description! 

In New York City (or it’s more formal name, the Center of the Universe), a fairly new place opened up, mimicking the style of the West Coast burrito shop, and it’s called Dos Toros.

Dos Toros is a small shop, on 4th, barely a block away from Union Square, and pays homage to burrito culture, while practicing green and sustainable living, such as partnering with recyclable initiatives. While that’s great, if their Burritos sucked, I would have to move on elsewhere.

Compared to the Chipotle burrito, Dos Toros is a smaller burrito, with less options. Your choices are meat, salsa, hot sauce, and quac. I had the steak burrito, with tomato salsa, no quac, and no hot sauce. I wanted to see if it could hold up on its own.

On the first bite, the burrito had potential, but was nowhere near the explosive flavor that I’m used to. The more I bit into the burrito, I became more disappointed, it lacked flavor. The beauty of this dish is, ingredients are wrapped and turned into a flavorful pile of delicious Hispanic heaven. 

An American burrito, yesterday. It's probably thinking, 'How YOU doin'?'.

Any burrito that requires a significant amount of hot sauce is not only performing the dish wrong, but should go out of business and set up shop elsewhere. Dos Torros is far from that, but this Burrito definitely needed spice to make it taste better. It shocked me, because Dos Toros follows many of the same mantras that Chipotle does, such as using organic meat, and local ingredients.

However, a burrito from Chipotle can, in some cases, act as forms of currency, or sex. Dos Toros was clearly  lacking something.

I have to admit, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been to Dos Toros, and I’ve had mixed results. This review was a way to see if my initial thoughts of the place were accurate. Sadly they are. The service is great, the people are friendly, and unique, and fun to talk to, if it’s not too busy.

The place is spat right out of California, so the tables are all hard wood, and sturdy. Clearly, this is a place where burritos are made from the angelic hands of God and Goddesses and delivered to your mouth. But upon taste, disappointment settled in. I had such high hopes. Maybe I was expecting too much.

Mood Before: Confident, Happy, Excited, And Thrilled

Mood After: Confident, Happy, Exited, and Disappointed

Rating: Food 7/10, Ambience 8/10, Staff 9/10, Value 8/10

Where: 137 4th Avenue in New York City

Closet Subway (or what you UK call the ‘Tube’): Union Square (L, 4, 5, 6, N, Q, R, or W)

Web: http://dostoros.com / @DosTorosNYC

Recommended: Yes

Picante

So, it turns out that relationships can play havoc with a previously thriving burrito blog. When a) your other half isn’t keen on burritos*, you’ve suddenly got to be seen naked and have gained a stone thanks to burritos, and your new hobby is playing Scrabble in pubs instead of eating burritos, it really puts a dampener on the whole burrito-blogging business. Plus, I broke my laptop when it fell off the bed (ahem).

It was worth it.

But relationships can also be good for a burrito blog. At least they were just this once. Following a visit to Mr Mullies’ homeland of Wolverhampton, we were due to arrive back in London with plenty of time to catch Picante before it shut. It being one of the many burrito joints in London only open at lunchtime on weekdays, this was very good news indeed.

At least it seemed like good news, until train delays (a dodo riding a unicorn blocking the line with magic beans or something) meant we had about five minutes to catch Picante before it shut.

Now, I’m no stranger to Mission Impossible-style jaunts to find a good burrito. But we had several bags (to be fair, Mr Mullies was saddled with most of these, like an alluring pack horse), it was a hot day, and my sense of direction is worse than Frankie Cocozza’s hair. By the time we got to Picante – a cute, blue-fronted building down an invisible side street in Victoria – Mr Mullies was crying, and the staff were sitting down for their lunch.

Bluer than the blue, blue sea. Or a blueberry.

We must have looked suitably pitiable though, because the very friendly owner let us in anyway, and served us up two delicious-looking burritos for a mere £5 each – although sour cream was 20p extra, which was a bit weird.

It was worth the extra cash, however, as Picante burritos are really rather nice. My hot sauce was a bit too hot, which was my fault for ordering it. But, as I was already sweatier than Greg Wallace checking out The Great British Bake-Off’s ratings, it was a bit uncomfortable. It was also a little too cheesy, but there the criticisms end. It was lovely and juicy, with very tasty chicken, a well-packed by not over-stuffed wrap, and a great balance of ingredients. 

A burrito anointed with sweat, yesterday

Considering it was the very end of the day, it tasted completely fresh. Plus the staff were super-friendly, and – as if that wasn’t good enough – Picante also offers the opportunity to buy some very tiny, very strong magnets after you’ve eaten your tasty burrito.**

Holds six sheets of A4 paper!

My packhorse declared his the best he’d ever eaten (bearing in mind he’s a rank amateur), and less oily than Tortilla, which has a branch underneath his office. Then he admitted that what had initially been a begrudging duty had blossomed into a delight. Put THAT on your sales blurb, Mr Picante!

So impressed was he, that he urged me to take a photo of his empty plate, suggesting it would be an excellent addition to my blog. Being a journalist, he should have realised this is the equivalent of someone telling him a long and involved story about a cat trapped under some decking then proudly saying, ‘Stick THAT in your magazine!’ But I’ve decided to humour him anyway:

Ta-da! *Proudface*

Overall, Picante is a lovely little place, perfect for lunch if you’re in the area and aching for some hot burrito action. Or some very small magnets.

*I know, I know. But he won Countdown, so I forgive him.

**This, apparently, being the owner’s sideline. Hmm.

Mood before: Tired but happy, like a child after a trip to Legoland

Mood after: Sweaty 

Rating: Food 7/10, Ambience 7/10, Staff 9/10, Value 8/10

Where: 18 Greencoat Row, SW1P 1PQ. The number’s 0207 834 0027 in case you get lost and need to phone them like we did. 

Closest tube: Victoria

Web: Find them here /@Picantegrill_UK, but the owner says he doesn’t do Twitter much, although his wife has the odd look. You’re better off finding them on Facebook.

Recommended?: Yes, definitely.

Chipotle (US)

If you have read about how this blog began (and if not, WHY NOT?) you’ll know that it’s all Chipotle’s fault. After going to New York and having a burrito more delicious than any other burrito ever, I decided to find its equivalent in London. Then went on to put on a stone – the things I bloody do for you, eh?

So you can imagine how excited I was to land a press trip to Florida, which is simply bursting at the seams with Chipotles. During the course of the trip, I fell off a Segway while travelling at around 0.005 mph, went to a circus show called Grandma and Friends where a man with a nice bottom did some trampolining, and discovered how I measure up to a manatee:

Mullies: Definitely not as big as a manatee.

Yet despite these delights, I was most excited about going back to Chipotle and checking that I hadn’t been hallucinating when I decided they were nice enough to warrant a blog which has cost me time, money and my sex appeal.

Brilliantly, when the press trip organisers found out about my blog, they actually adjusted our itinerary to allow time to pop into a branch on the way to the airport. Maybe in doing this I missed finding out how I measure up to a giraffe or an otter or something, but I feel this was a small price to pay.

The branch we went to was surprisingly empty, although maybe it wasn’t all that surprising at all, seeing as Americans have constant access to yummy burritos and don’t have to make the most of it when they finally find one that doesn’t taste like a baby robot only a mummy robot could love.

Chipotle: rhymes with Segway but a lot harder to fall off

I ordered the usual (chicken, black beans, no bloody guacamole), and practically swooned to see them heaping ingredients onto a huge wrap, rather than dribbling them onto a tortilla the size of a jam jar lid like they so often do over here. Plus it was only about £5. Cashback! (Literally. I got $2 change from $10).

Due to time constraints, I had to eat my burrito in the car on the way to the airport. @Dinehard was a bit unhappy about this, being a big fan of not sitting in a confined space next to someone eating a big stinky burrito. So, apologies to @dinehard.

I was a bit nervous – what if it was rubbish? The single branch of Chipotle which graces the UK is really rubbish. Maybe the glamour of New York had blinded me to the averageness of Chipotle’s offerings? Maybe it was all for NOTHING. But no, I was right all along. Of course I was. 

It was amazeballs with awesomesauce, where amazeballs are actually lots of very nice chicken and tasty rice and awesomesauce is juicy beans, pitch-perfect hot sauce and a portion the size of a manatee’s wang.

Proof, were it needed, that I AM ALWAYS RIGHT.

In fact, in the UK, only Daddy Donkey and Chilango have come anywhere close to being as nice. Although interestingly* this** comprehensive US burrito blog only gives Chipotle a 4.1 rating. Which means that in the land of the free and the home of the burrito, what I’d consider an exceptional burrito is, over there, merely below average. In which case, imagine what a 10/10 burrito would taste like. IMAGINE. Mmm. I am imagining.

Mood before: Smaller than a manatee.

Mood after: Bigger, but still smaller than a manatee.

Ratings: Food: 9/10, Ambience: 6/10, Staff: 7/10, Value: 10/10

Where: AMERICA, BABY!

Recommended?: Yes. I insist you fly there immediately.

*If you don’t find this interesting, what on earth are you doing here?

** This blog also was the way I discovered burritos are up to 1,300 calories each. Goodbye skinny jeans, hello moo-moo! *chubbysadface*

Chilango

A wise owl once wrote, ‘HIPY PAPY BTHETHDDTHNTHUTHDA BTHUTHDY’, explaining that this meant, ‘A Happy Birthday With Love From Pooh’. And it was birthdays and owls which lead me to Chilango, the burrito joint which has had more recommendations than OJ’s lawyer.

To be specific, it was @Wowser’s birthday. Although he insists he’s not an owl, and in real life has arms and legs and stuff, when he tweets things like ‘I am having a haircut,’ I still can’t help imagining a small feathered bird with its poky feet sticking straight out from a barber’s chair, having its feathers trimmed.

So for the purposes of this blog, an owl was having a birthday, and he wanted a burrito for dinner. Along for the ride were @Themanwhofell, @MandrewB, @TheAzzo and some absolutely torrential rain.

I’d already been to Chilango previously, on a date with @Fitzyrichard for his 52 Burrito Dates blog. Despite the presence of a mariachi band on that occasion - inexplicably billed as a ’special treat’ - I remembered that through my red-faced agony, the burritos were actually delicious, so I’d saved this one till almost-last.*

Like most burrito joints, the decorative theme was ‘early 90s fluoro legging,’ with orange and lime green being the predominant colours. It was airy and modern with bench seating downstairs and tables upstairs and it was crammed with lots and lots of people. Although maybe that had something to do with the monsoon season that seemed to have descended on Islington.

I had the usual (chicken, black beans, yada yada), for £6.30, and a limitless soft drink for £1.60 (Diet Coke - although with burritos coming in at about 800-1,000 calories a pop, having diet anything is a futile nod towards robust health).

I usually eat my burritos alone, so it was nice to have someone to talk to and to see debris gradually piling up in the centre of the table. Although the friendly birthday chit-chat and laughter meant I didn’t focus on the actual burrito as closely as usual. Damn the merriment’s very eyes!

Look, no beak!

I suspect, however, that whatever the situation, a Chilango burrito is a good burrito: nay, a great burrito. It was huge, thanks to the double scoop of great-tasting chicken heaped onto the tortilla by my burrista, with lovely flavour and not a hint of dryness.

Because it was so podgy and squodgy and fat, there wasn’t much tortilla overlap, which can get tedious if you’re in it for the filling (fnar). The rice and beans were well-cooked, the ingredients were evenly distributed, and the whole thing was a proper juicy treat. KABLOOEY!

I was also delighted to note that they offered TWO types of hot sauce: the ubiquitous wooden-topped Cholula, and Chilango’s own Habanero sauce, which I was disproportionately impressed by. One day, I will have my own hot sauce, so help me.  With my face on the label, like Paul Newman.

Just out of shot: Mullies' Own Hot Stuff

Obviously, this blog is only my opinion, so I asked the others what they thought of their burritos. Their verdicts are as follows:

@Wowser: “The rice should be long grain, not basmati. But I liked the mildly flirtatious service.”

@TheAzzo: “The salsa verde isn’t nearly verde enough. And the pork isn’t as good as Benito’s Hat.” **

@MandrewB: “It’s fine”

@themanwhofell: “I enjoyed it.”

More than anything, this proves that you should be grateful it’s me writing this blog, because I couldn’t get much more than that out of them. And none of them said anything interesting about fluoro leggings or monsoons or owls.

Happy birthday, Wowser.

Mood before: Like a nervous lover about to ride a man-stallion

Mood after: *Smiles smugly, smokes fag*

Ratings: Food: 8/10, Ambience: 8/10, Staff: 7/10 (the flirtation didn’t work on me, but the double helping of chicken did), Value: 8/10

Where: 27 Upper Street, Islington; 142 Fleet Street; 76 Chancery Lane. Also, Bluewater in Kent and Meadowhall in Sheffield. Opening times vary, but the Islington branch is seven days a week.

Closest tube: Angel, Blackfriars, Chancery Lane, grown-up trains to Kent and Sheffield.

Web: Find them here / @Chilango_UK

Recommended?: Yes, especially if it is an owl’s birthday and it’s raining.

*I’m running out of burrito joints which are either near work or open evenings / weekends – I’ll be taking a couple of days off soon to visit some of the places that only open 11am-3pm on weekdays. And to stock up on stretchy trousers.

**There followed a debate about pork vs chicken which I settled myself by going back to Benito’s Hat a few days later and having a pork burrito. It was as uninspiring as their chicken ones, but at least I’m thorough.

Poncho No 8

In the guest blog written by Gary Bainbridge I posted here yesterday, I pointed out that I’m currently a poor little church mouse who can’t afford any cheese, let alone the tortilla wrap, rice, beans and meat to go with it.

But then I had a very bad day indeed, which I spent grumping about the place like a frowny rain cloud, and decided I needed cheering up. And that, of course, means food. Yum yum yum.

Last week, I went to the opening night of the new Soho branch of Poncho No 8, after emailing them about my extremely important blog and blagging an invite (nothing to do with me working for Cosmo, I’m sure). An eager crowd of foodie liggers were served extremely promising mini burritos and delicious frozen margheritas, and I couldn’t wait to go back.

DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? Oh, you do. Oh…I’ll just sit over here then.

The interior is modern and minimalist, and although I favour the fake-cactus-and-sombrero style of burrito-joint decor, there was a soothing lime-green-and-orange thing going on instead, which got my vote by reminding me of my favourite flavour of tic tacs.

Service was a bit slow, which was understandable seeing as the burrista was probably all shiny and new, although he lost points by calling the guacamole ‘guac’, which is a pet hate of mine. I know four syllables is a bit of a drag, but it’s not your Uncle Guac. 

There was a choice of red (tomato?) and lime rice, and the black beans had red chillis mixed in, which was an unusual touch I haven’t seen before.

My burrito was a little on the small side, which meant it suffered a surfeit of wrap-to-filling, but the wrap was interestingly chewy (it started off being annoyingly chewy, but once I got used to it I decided I quite liked it), so all was forgiven.

It cost £6.10, although I’m sure if I’d revealed my true identity it would have been free, and they’d have carried me upstairs to the dining area on their shoulders.

It had a few things wrong with it – too cold (probably because of the Beginner Burrista Effect, which meant it took about 5,000 years to wrap), under-spiced, and slightly dry with al dente beans that got on my nerves a bit. I also accidentally chewed a piece of tin foil, but I’m not going to blame anyone but myself for that one.

However, despite these individual flaws, the whole managed to be greater than the sum of its parts. The chicken was full of flavour and nicely crispy, the rice was fluffy and tasty, and the tables had little bowls of lime slices you could squeeze onto each bite which worked brilliantly, lifting the whole thing above the norm.

An al dente burrito, yesterday

I’d liked to have seen some bottles of hot sauce on the tables, too, but maybe I’m just going to have to start bumping up my chosen salsa to Defcon Three when it comes to ordering, because lots of the burritos I’ve reviewed so far haven’t been spicy enough for a double-hard bastard like me.

All in all, my sojurn was a successful one, although not quite successful enough to turn my really quite spectacular frown upside-down.

Mood before: WAHHHHH!

Mood after: *Burp*. WAHHHHH!

Rating: Food 7/10, Ambience 7/10, Staff 6/10 (but they’re all new, bless ‘em), Value: 6/10

Where: 11 Queen’s Head Passage, St Paul’s;  5 Steward St, Spitalfields.

Closest Tube: St Paul’s, Liverpool St.

Web: Here / @ponchono8

Recommended?: If you’re looking for burritos in Soho, this is your best bet.

UPDATE THE FIRST: Onwards and upwards (and, in the case of my stomach, outwards)

Despite Poncho No 8′s sterling work, I have grown to hate its chirpy green sign and proximity to my office. As the small early-days teething-creases have been ironed out, these burritos have grown in might and stature, and I have become ADDICTED, DAMMIT.

The worst (best) thing about the place, apart from the basic darn deliciousness of its burritos, is that they do tiny mini burritos for £2.10, which are perfect for luring innocent souls like me in, thinking, ‘I’ll just have a taste. Just a nibble.’ Then you eat one, dribble everywhere, and order a large immediately. Bad, BAD Poncho No 8.

In addition, they have now started putting this amazingly bright-green sauce on the tables. It is both delicious and a great colour. Look how happy it’s making @emily_nia!

“I LOVE GREEN SAUCE! AND DOGS!”

In view of all this, I have decided to upgrade Poncho’s rating to 8/10. Good work, burrito soldiers!

UPDATE THE SECOND: The Soho branch of Poncho No 8 has sadly closed (not through lack of appreciatiation of their deliciousness, I am assured, but because of An Offer They Couldn’t Refuse), but I’m sure the other branches are nice too.

Guest post: Barburrito

When Liverpool Daily Post Columnist Supremo Gary Bainbridge mentioned on Twitter that he was going to Barburrito in Liverpool, I made him tell me all about it. Then I made him let me post his tellings here, because I can’t afford burritos at the moment, and this is a cheap way of updating the blog. There are also branches of Barburrito in Leeds and Manchester, if you’re that way inclined.

 

I walked into Barburitto through a sea of sappy young things with tight T-shirts and pouting breasts. And the women wore equally skimpy outfits. It was warm, and I was wearing a suit. I felt precisely like Ed Rooney as he searched for Ferris Bueller in that arcade.

 

The set-up was just like Subway, if Subway had got out of the Meatball Marinara/overpoweringly be-oreganoed extended roll game and got into burritos.

 

I asked the nice man behind the counter for a burrito. He reacted, to his credit, as if this were a common occurrence, and asked me which meat I would like. Although it was impressive to see the marinated chicken breasts being grilled BEFORE MY VERY EYES I fancied the pulled pork, if only because it sounded funny.

 

I was surprised to be charged extra for peppers and onions and guacamole. I know little of the ways of burritos, but from what I have gleaned by reading Mullies’ Burrito Blog, it is like going into McDonald’s and being charged for the optional bottom half of the bun*. Then he asked which of the four levels of heat I required from a chilli sauce. I had no idea because I had never been there before, but I went for level 3, the chipotle.

 

He then slid the burrito over to another man. As far as he was concerned, I was history. Man number two asked me if I wanted cheese and sour cream. I said yes to the former, and pulled an ‘Ugh’ face to the latter. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. I do not like cream. This is on record. I am not keen on milk, either, but I have it in tea. And what I do know about milk is that sour milk is a terrible thing. So why the hell I would think sour cream is a good thing is beyond my limited dairy-based comprehension.

 

Man number two wrapped up my burrito niftily in a foil-like wrapper  - by the way, this was the worst thing about the burrito. I had to leave half of it – and I sat down with my burrito and a refreshing cardboard cup of fat Pepsi. I bit into my burrito… and…

It was quite nice.

 

Moist without being sloppy. Not particularly spicy, but there were six thousand bottles of Tabasco about the place. The lime and coriander rice was pleasant. The guacamole was first rate. I was halfway down the burrito before I realised I hadn’t tasted any pork, but there was some stuck in my teeth, so I must have eaten some.

 

The greatest picture of a burrito ever taken. If it is, indeed, a burrito.

I will have another one somewhere else, now that I have a frame of reference.

 

I am now burping peppers and onion.

 

*Ed’s note: Gary’s rookie mistake here is that onions and peppers are what you have instead of beans and rice if you want a fajita rather than a burrito, hence the extra charge. Technically, what Gary had was a Fajitto, but let’s not be pernickity.

Freebird Burritos

It was lunchtime on a Friday afternoon, and it had been days – literally DAYS – since my last burrito. I was pining for the promise of meaty, ricey goodness, tenderly wrapped in silver foil like a tasty baby robot being tucked into bed.

I only had my lunch hour to find one, so like an addict desperate for a hit –  any hit, from anywhere – I decided to go to Wrap It Up!, which is a three-minute walk from work and sells burritos for a mere £3.

Then I remembered why their burritos are only £3 and decided that, it being Friday – a happy day, a noble day – today wouldn’t be the day I’d subject myself to that particular horror again, even if I’ll have to eventually for this blog.

Instead, I headed to the burrito stall on Rupert St, Soho. I’d been there before, but that was back when I almost never compared burritos to tasty baby robots. So I was thrilled when I realised it was actually a branch of Freebird Burritos, which has been recommended to me by @HoveHousewife, and lauded around the internet on other (less robotty) food sites.

The skilfully altered sign at the front, which suggested that the burritos had recently cost £6, but were now a fiver, worried me a bit. Hopefully they were just being really nice?

*Supiciousface*

I soon discovered that Freebird Burritos are NOT very nice, in more ways than one. Ordering the usual (chicken, lime-cilanto rice, black beans, cheese, sour cream, medium salsa), I noticed the end product was looking a bit sorry for itself, so added some lettuce.

It had also been hanging around for a little while waiting to be wrapped, so I decided to eat it as I walked back to give it a fair chance of being all tasty and warm. Mmm!

Or rather, as Homer Simpson once memorably demanded of a rice cake: Hello taste? WHERE ARE YOU? I have simply no idea how it’s possible to wrap seven ingredients in a tortilla and have them taste of so little, unless those ingredients are meh, meh, meh, meh, meh, meh and meh.

‘The taste must be at the bottom,’ I thought, manfully (womanfully?) soldiering on. But no. One mouthful tasted a bit chickeny. But otherwise, it was just an insipid, watery nothing that only a mummy robot could love.

DAMN YOU, TASTELESS BABY ROBOT!

It was also tepid to begin with, and stone cold by the time I got to my office five minutes away, even the hot sauce having apparently given the whole thing up for a bad job. Eventually, I decided it really wasn’t worth the calories, and chucked the last bit away. Then I wrote this to take my mind off the terrible hunger pangs and ALL THE MEH.

Mood before: It’s Friday! Yay!

Mood after: Christ, are my taste-buds broken?

Rating: Food 3/10, Ambience 2/10, Staff 4/10, Value: 4/10

Where: Corner of Rupert St and Brewer St, London W1F 0RG, Monday to Friday

Closest Tube: Piccadilly Circus

Web: Here / @freebirdburrito

Recommended?: Umm, no.

Daddy Donkey. Mission: Burrito

Since I started this burrito blog all those years* ago, I have noticed a common theme emerging. And that theme is. ‘GO TO DADDY DONKEY. GO ON, GO TO DADDY DONKEY. IT’S THE BEST ONE. GO ON. DADDDDYYYY DONKEEEEY!’ So many people have recommended it (namely @MarinaMetro, @Lady_Lucan, @JimFam a girl in my office and around 65,436 food websites), I couldn’t leave it off my list.

The main problem is that Daddy Donkey’s opening hours are 7.30am-4pm on weekdays. I work just off Carnaby Street (please do not stalk me. Thank you.), and Daddy Donkey** is near Chancery Lane. Of course, I would be fully prepared to forgo a lie-in for the sake of my burrito mission.

But before 11am they only serve breakfast burritos (a situation universally known as The McDonalds Conundrum), and I couldn’t make a mockery of my own rules, which say each burrito needs to contain chicken for a fair comparison. Even if you squint, scrambled egg and sausage are impressively dissimilar to chicken.

I would have to either book a day off just to buy a burrito, which would be quite embarrassing when filling in my holiday form. Or, I’d have to fit a trip in inside my lunch hour. Could it be done? There was only one way to find out…

12.32pm: In-depth research (Twitter) has told me that the queue at Daddy Donkey’s blue-and-red liveried truck is usually about 25 minutes long (‘worth every second!’ @JonathanMathias parps enthusiastically). If I can get there early and whittle that down to about 20 minutes, it’ll give me 40 minutes’ travelling time. If I do that not-quite-running walk I do when I’m late for work but don’t want to look too unsexy, I might just make it. I glance at my computer’s clock. It is 12.32pm precisely.

12.46pm: Having nimbly hop-scotched my way around the tourists of Carnaby Street – who traditionally move at the same speed as an elderly man with an arthritic hip who is playing a game of statues in very heavy shoes – I emerge, blinking, from Chancery Lane tube, before heading to Leather Lane. Not-quite-running down the street, I spot a flash of blue and red…

12.53pm: I’m in the queue! If I can get to the front in 18 minutes, I should be back at my desk at PRECISELY 1.32pm. I bloody WIN at getting to places on time! I bask in the admiring glances of passers-by. ‘That’s a long queue,’ they are probably thinking. ‘She must really know her stuff, grub-wise.’ My mind wanders. I start to wonder if they do a donkey burrito.

1.02pm: DISASTER. I’ve reached the front of the queue in double-quick time. But Daddy and his Donkey have run out of chicken. It will take four minutes to finish cooking a new batch. A bead of sweat creeps apologetically down my forehead. I could go for pork. But that would be all wrong. People would revolt if I bend the rules! I may as well have had scrambled egg! I decide to risk it. ‘I’ll wait,’ I say imperiously, stepping aside for the chicken-shunning masses to place their orders.

1.06pm: The chicken is ready. My burrito is being made. It will cost me £5.50, and I also order a can of Diet Coke for just 60p. I look longingly at the Roasted Red Pepper Vinaigrette. It looks lovely, but is 50p extra, and would go against the spirit of my mission. A huge pile of crispy-looking chicken is heaped onto my tortilla. Daddy, I think I love you.

1.07pm: Luckily, there are no tables outside the van. I would have been sad to have to eat my burrito walking back to the tube if I hadn’t had to. But I would have had to, so it’s fine. Unwrapping the foil, my lips quiver. And suddenly, it’s happening. It’s really happening. I’M EATING A DADDY DONKEY BURRITO.

1.08pm: It’s okay.

1.09pm: Only kidding! It’s really nice. The crispy chicken has tons of flavour and is nicely juicy, and there is a LOT of it. It’s very different to the chicken I’ve had anywhere else. There’s not quite enough hot sauce for my liking, but what’s there is lovely. There’s a generous amount of cheese, and not too much sour cream to overpower it, and the filling is very well distributed all the way through. It’s a shame I’m having to eat it on the hoof, but that’s probably really authentic and street foody and awesome, maybe.

A burrito in transit, yesterday

1.13pm: Clutching the remains of my burrito, I head down to the tube. If all goes well, I might just about make it…I’m feeling too full to not-quite-run, but I do walk down the escalator. This is incredibly dangerous, as my rail-holding hand is clutching a burrito corpse. I’m feeling a lot like Ethan Hunt right now.

1.32pm: Panting and waddling, I arrive back at my desk. I look at the clock. 1.32pm exactly. I am so excited, I start hopping up and down, pointing at my screen and shouting, ‘One thirty-two pm! ONE THIRTY-TWO PM!!’ like Doc Brown getting over-enthused about the 1.6 Gigawatts needed to power the DeLorean***. My colleagues look bemused and tell me I smell of burritos. But I don’t care. I won.

Here is a picture of the clock. It took me a minute to minimise the highly sensitive documents on my desktop, and I didn’t take a ‘before’ photo either, rendering it entirely redundant

*Three weeks.

** My friend recently remarked, ‘What’s that burrito place you went to called? No Daddy Don’t?’ which is so funny I’m tempted to give it extra points.

**If you don’t understand what this means, we can never be friends. ADDENDUM: @Dookie3000 has pointed out, with rightful indignation, that this should be 1.21 gigawatts. I’d like to pretend this was merely a test, but lies make Baby Jesus cry. I’ve unfriended myself on Facebook, and am wearing a hair-shirt.

Mood before: Duh-duh der-ner, duh-duh DER-ner.

Mood after: WHO’S THE DADDY?

Rating: Food: 8/10 Ambience: 5/10 Staff: 8/10 Value: 9/10

Where: 100 Leather Lane, City of London, EC1N 7TE, weekdays only

Closest tube: Chancery Lane. You were paying attention, right?

Web: Find them here / @DaddyDonkey

Recommended?: Ee-AWWW! (Yes)

Mas Burritos

The morning I went to Mas Burritos, I absolutely, definitely was NOT going to have a burrito. I’d been to Tortilla just the day before, where I’d gorged on my fifth burrito in eight days. Six in nine days would be ridiculously greedy.

A few hours of writing about ladies’ things for Cosmo later, I decided I deserved a treat. You know, because I’m worth it. But what could I treat myself to? I didn’t have the money for shoes. I am morally opposed to cupcakes. And I don’t like massages. What I needed was something that cost around £6-£7, wasn’t seven different pastel shades, and definitely didn’t involve me taking all my clothes off and being rubbed by a stranger. What on earth could I do?

Mas Burritos is easy to find, boasting a bright-yellow sign that told me this was definitely the kind of place that would shout ‘ARRRRRIBA!’ at me when I walked through the door, without a hipster lamp fashioned from beer bottles in sight. I went to the Covent Garden branch, not yet realising there was a Soho branch closer to my offices. That disappointment, like so many others, was yet to come.

ARRRRIBA!

Sure enough, it had tablecloths decorated with oranges, and a little tin foil model of a Mexican man playing a Mexican guitar in a Mexican hat. So far, so good.

Do Not Chew

I ordered the usual chicken - tinga this time, cooked in chipotle adobe marinade - noting that the black beans were almost sinister in their blackness, like a bucket of beetles with the legs pulled off. I also noticed, with some unease, that the cheese they used wasn’t cheddar, as usual, but a combination of cheddar and Red Leicester.

As any of you who have ever eaten a packed lunch at a British comprehensive will know,* there are two types of kids: those who eat orange cheese and those who eat normal cheese. It’s a fierce divide, each side viewing the other with mortal mistrust, like the Sharks and the Jets, but less stabby and more cheesy.

I always viewed Orange Cheese Kids with suspicion, especially as their sandwiches were usually made with brown bread. Madness. Despite the realisation that Mas Burritos is ruled by a not-to-be-trusted Orange Cheese Kid, I persevered, adding some pineapple and sweetcorn salsa. After trying it with great success at The Flying Burrito, I was filled with hope.

Unfortunately, said hope was wildly misplaced, as instead of small hits of sweetness lifting my burrito into the sublime every other bite, I was faced with hulking great chunks of pineapple which tasted like they’d been fished out of a can last week and stopped pretty much any other flavour coming through.

The bit of the burrito that had escaped Captain Pineapple’s evil clutches was weirdly tasteless. It just kind of sat there in my mouth, going ‘meh,’ like a sulky teenager. After I’d gone, it probably moped in a darkened room, listening to Mumford and Sons and refusing to tidy its room. It wasn’t awful, and would have been fairly inoffensive without the pineapple. But for £5.85, I’d expect something a bit more exciting.

"Why did you even HAVE me? I HATE you!"

I hadn’t bothered ordering a drink (a really bad idea: if any meal needs a drink to go with it, it’s one primarily comprising bread, dry meat and hot sauce), and as if in divine retribution, the door of the drinks cabinet hit the back of my chair every time someone opened it. I could have moved, but I seemed to have caught a debilitating dose of ennui from my burrito, and couldn’t be bothered.

On the plus side, you can get another moribund burrito for half price if you return to Mas Burritos the next day clutching your receipt. It also boasts three different types of Cholula sauce: Chili Garlic and Chipotle, on top of the usual Original. I tried them all in rotation throughout my meal in order to give you the DEFINITIVE review. In the spirit of the 2012 Olympics, I have awarded them medals:

GOLD: Original

SILVER: Chipotle

BRONZE: Chili Garlic

There. Now you don’t have to fret about missing out on tickets to the ping-pong.

*Private school kids eat quinoa wrapped in lettuce leaves and spinach jus tartlets and stuff rather than cheese sandwiches.

Mood before: Burrito number six? I’M COMING TO GET YOU!

Mood after: *Shrugs. Wears fringe too long* 

Rating: Food 5/10, Ambience 6/10, Staff 7/10, Value 6/10

Where: Chancery Lane, Covent Garden, Tower Hill, Monday-Friday

Closest tube: Ummm…Chancery Lane, Covent Garden and Tower Hill?

Web: Find them here / @MasBurritos (They’ve only tweeted twice, don’t get excited)

Recommended?: Not bovvered