AN ACQUIRED TASTE

REVIEW: Allen Brothers Scrap Metals and Recycling: FIVE STAR – gourmet steak sautéed by God himself

I need no introduction, but I am Dean Torvill (no relation), and ordinarily I write a riveting food column for the Guardian, but unfortunately, those conceited philistines refused to publish this review so I am now forced to resort to the cesspool of unsolicited public opinion: Tripadvisor.

Go ahead, Cheryl, fire me for breaking my exclusivity clause. I DON’T CARE. The world simply must know of the greatest restaurant in existence: Allen Brothers Scrap Metals and Recycling Ltd, Boldon Industrial Estate, Sunderland.

Yes, this establishment may have Michelin Tires, not Michelin stars. Yes, the maître d' is just two chained dogs barking at you as you enter. Yes, the ‘restaurant’ is an old caravan at the end of a maze of rusted Vauxhall Corsas…

And yes, the only seating is a cramped booth on stained pleather cushions. And yes, the ‘ambience’ is nothing more than a radio blaring out ‘Talk Sport’. And naturally, ‘hygiene’ is a word that I’m not sure Mr. Allen could spell, because, yes, the steaks are seared directly on top of a greasy woodburning stove that I saw him stoking with AA batteries…

And yes, I was served my food on a paper plate printed with the words ‘Happy 5th Birthday Jimmy’ and when I asked for cutlery, I was thrown a chip-shop wooden fork and a sachet of stolen McDonald’s ketchup…

And YES, Mr. Allen insisted on watching me as I ate and even asked if he could have the last bite before I was finished…

…but reader, dear reader…

I have never eaten steak as succulent or as rich with flavour as the steak I ate that night.

I had taken a bite out of the apple of Eden, kissed the newborn Venus, I had tasted the face of God and he was salted to perfection.

I had finally felt what I imagine being in love feels like…

Like a great magician, Mr. Allen had performed a masterclass in misdirection. Whilst I had been staring at the black mould on the caravan walls, contemplating how I might escape with my life, my chef had been conducting his orchestra into a perfect harmony of flavour.

I asked how he did it, I begged to know his secret. Was it the infusion of brake fluid from his unwashed hands that tenderised the meat? Was it the layers and layers of previous meals encrusted on his hob that simmered into a unique marinade? Or was he simply possessed by the ghost of Chef Auguste Escoffier (RIP)?

But he refused to tell, insisting that the steak was from the Aldi down the road.

Needless to say, I have had Chernobyl-grade diarrhoea since this experience, but that’s beside the point.

Please, by all possible means, visit Mr. Allen’s restaurant/scrapyard before it is shut down for violating every health code under the sun.

Ask for the steak. Medium rare. And tell him Torvill sent you.