I don’t know who rated this place highly, but I have questions. Were they blindfolded? Were they held hostage? Did they lose a bet? Because after my experience, I’m convinced this place is a social experiment to see how much human suffering one meal can cause.
I walked in with an empty stomach and a hopeful heart. Big mistake. I ordered a burger and a chicken samosa, thinking, How bad can it be? The answer: worse than anything you could ever imagine
The Burger: A Tragedy in a Bun
At first glance, the burger almost looked normal. Then I noticed the salad. It looked like it had survived three heatwaves, Brexit, and possibly the extinction of the dinosaurs. It was limp, lifeless, and had the color of disappointment. The oil they used was so dark, I wasn’t sure if I was eating food or staring into the abyss.
And the chips? Oh, dear God. The chips were so oily that if I dropped one, Greenpeace would show up to clean it. They weren’t crispy, they weren’t soft—they were just sad. They tasted like they had been fried in engine oil from a 1998 Ford Fiesta. I wouldn’t be surprised if they actually deep-fried a potato last week and just reheated it using a hairdryer.
The Samosa: A Grease Bomb from Hell
Then came the samosa. One bite in, and my arteries screamed for help. If I had squeezed it, I swear it would have produced enough oil to power a small village. I’m talking so much grease, KFC would have taken notes. I almost considered bottling it up and selling it to Shell.
At this point, my stomach was sending out distress signals. It knew what was coming. But even my worst fears couldn’t prepare me for what I saw next.
The Crime Against Humanity I Witnessed
As I sat there, questioning my life choices, I saw something so horrifying, so disturbing, it should be illegal.
One of the staff members was putting back leftovers from other customers onto new plates. I’m talking sauces, salads, and even half-eaten meat. I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I thought maybe I had died and gone to Hell, and this was my punishment.
At that moment, I realized this wasn’t a restaurant—it was a survival test.
The Aftermath: A Battle Between Me and My Stomach
I left that place feeling like I had personally offended a witch, and she cursed my digestive system. My stomach was playing dubstep, my intestines were doing backflips, and within 30 minutes, I had to sprint to the toilet like it was the Olympics.
I won the race. But I lost my dignity.
The Price? My Sanity.
I paid £7 for this meal. Now, I know that’s cheap, but not cheap enough to justify food that belongs in a crime documentary. The head chef? Mr. Microwave. Working overtime to ensure every meal tastes like reheated disappointment.
And the fries… oh, the fries. I don’t know what demonic deep fryer they were using, but if you held them up to the light, you could probably see straight through them. I’ve had better food at a petrol station at 2 AM.
Final Verdict: Run.
If you love your stomach, your self-respect, and your will to live—run.
I wouldn’t even recommend this place to my worst enemy. I’d rather eat a month-old gas station sandwich than ever set foot in this establishment again.
This wasn’t just a bad meal. This was trauma. I’m considering therapy. I think I have...
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