Year of Eating Differently (40): Gourmet Burger Kitchen, Frith Street

I'm still feeling sick an hour and a quarter later. GBK is one of those places that has never been formally introduced to the phrase 'less is more'; you get a burger that's stacked a good eight inches high, larded with so much cheese, marinade and just plain fat that by the time you're halfway through it, you're already feeling revolted by life, yourself, the person sat across from you, the waitress who brought it over, the fact that your friend's camembert burger wasn't even warmed through and still has an icy heart from the time it spent in the fridge, cursing over unrequited lovers. Somehow I forced myself through the portabella mushroom monstrosity I'd ordered. My companion, Jenny, sent hers back and asked for it to be cooked properly, which took so long the second time (and resembled something that had been vomitted into a bun when it returned, so saggy and beat-down were the onions that topped it off) that I almost lost my lunch again.
Plus the milkshake is made without ice-cream (a cardinal sin in the eyes of Jenny, but she is American and therefore doesn't understand the complicated and hateful nuances of the relationship between the British and their food) and the chips were only so-so; no mustard, and the chilli sauce they came with looked more like watery salsa. I was relieved to escape, which is the first real low this project has brought me to.