Sometimes you read something that has such a profound effect on the way that you think and perceive things that it’s a true life-altering moment. The first time I can recall such a thing happening to me was when I read 1984 as a spotty fifteen-year-old. It made me think how the established order was all a sham and we were all just parts in a machine that was, quite frankly, beyond buggered.
Most recently I had a similar epiphany after reading Danny Wallace’s article about Wimpy.
Wimpy. It brought back memories of my childhood in Darlington, going there with my mum and nana so they could drink coffee and talk about adult things, like how that new road was going to spoil the town and what a shit my dad was. I was pacified with a milkshake — the kind that was basically just coloured, flavoured milk, before anyone thought about adding lard to thicken them up — and the holy grail of desserts, the Knickerbocker Glory.
Burgers were served on plates with cutlery and you had to wait an age, or what seemed like an age as a child, to have your food brought over to one of the plastic booths. The fast food revolution hadn’t begun, but I felt like I was an extra in Happy Days or something. In my mind it was the kind of place one might go to enjoy an ice-cold Sarsparilla before taking Peggy Sue to the prom. Or whatever.
I was aware that Wimpy still existed after a former colleague showed me an online menu about five years ago, but it was still a place that was consigned to the past for me. Wimpy, like most Burt Reynolds films, was surely better just remembered as a highlight of youth and should never be revisited, lest ye be disappointed.
Mr Wallace had made me feel all nostalgic, but he conveyed information that was beyond important. There was, he said, a Wimpy somewhere in southern England where the proprietor went off-piste and made his own fantastic, towering burger creations. I decided that this place should be my Mecca, and not the bingo kind.
I was going to London for the weekend and I knew I would have some spare time on my hands on the Sunday. Would it be possible to make the pilgrimage to Addlestone in Surrey and see this burger nirvana for myself?
Yes, it bloody would.
I managed to get myself to Waterloo and purchase my return ticket to paradise. Soon I was hurtling out of London and into the countryside, unsure if a Wetherspoon’s breakfast only two hours earlier had been that good an idea.
Before long I was standing on a platform, watching as the train surged on towards Reading and thinking about how this was one of the maddest things I’d ever decided to do.
I found Wimpy within minutes, guessing which direction to head outside the station. I opened the door and was greeted by a smiling man.
“Are you eating in or taking away?” he asked.
OMFG! It was Wimpy Jeff, the legend of Addlestone Wimpy, the Creator of the Magnificent Burgers and seemingly all-round good egg of friendliness.
I was escorted to a seat and given a menu. How would I approach this? I felt like I was about to try and gain access to a secret society. Should I just come out and ask for it? What if someone heard me? I didn’t want to destroy the secret of the secret menu.
I took a chance.
“I’m here because Danny Wallace said you make some fantastic special burgers,” I said.
If I was going down, I was taking Wallace with me.
“The Mega Jeff Burger?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“OK then.”
It was that easy. He went into the kitchen and began preparing it. No drama, no secret handshakes. If you want the off-menu menu, you just have to ask.
My meal arrived and for a change, photos I’d seen beforehand hadn’t done a burger justice. Mega didn’t even begin to describe the creation which was at least as big as my head. The bun contained three burgers, one Bender sausage, several rashers of bacon, onion rings and a generous amount of burger sauce. And there was a bit of lettuce in there too, for the health fanatics. It was served with a colossal portion of chips and more onion rings.
Jeff took my picture, preserving the historical moment forever and then I went for it.
I regarded my burger in the same way that many men have looked up at Everest. It wasn’t going to beat me. I took my knife and fork and began my ascent. The taste was heavenly. All the meats — my favourite.
Jeff gave me a thumbs up from the kitchen.
At about the halfway point I started to get a bit of a sweat on and I thought I wasn’t going to make it, but I persevered. In the end I left the top part of the bun and about half of one of the burger patties, but I felt I’d given a pretty decent account of myself. I didn’t eat all the chips either, knowing that too much in the way of carbs isn’t good for you.
Towel thrown in, Jeff came and took my plate, exchanging it for a dessert menu. Was he joking? No, he wasn’t, but there was no way I would be raising a Knickerbocker Glory glass to my mum and nana that afternoon.
Pleasantries were exchanged with some of the locals who were staggered that I’d come all the way from Yorkshire for a burger. It’s not just a burger though, it’s a way of life. How could they not know this?
I settled up and shook Jeff’s hand, thanking him for his hospitality and his culinary vision.
£17 might sound like a lot, but considering I skipped tea and supper that day, despite being on an epic drinking session, it was money well spent.
I wobbled back to the station and took the next train back into the capital, knowing that the Wetherspoon’s breakfast had definitely been a bad idea. South Western Railway could do with installing bigger seats on all trains out of Addlestone for all the budding Mr Creosotes out there.
Danny Wallace may have previously claimed to have discovered the centre of the universe in a small town in America, but I think he’s wrong. The real centre of the universe can be found in a burger kitchen in Addlestone and it’s controlled by a man named Jeff.
