Beast is a self-consciously primal London steak-and-crab restaurant, all ludicrously oversized tables and steaks and crab legs and prices, presented gravely as though in mourning of the fallen at Helm’s Deep; a display of such over-the-top machismo that even Vladimir Putin rolls his eyes at it when he flies overhead on the bare back of a fire-breathing and spectacularly aroused dragon. Jay Rayner, writing for The Guardian, gives this dumbass retrograde-mating-display-as-food-service-establishment the deriding it deserves, and then some:
If Beast were a chap, he would be a part-time rugby player smelling of Ralgex who’s trying to tell you he’s deep and thoughtful, even though he’ll later be implicated in an incident involving a traffic cone and a pint glass of his own urine.
That’s a good-ass burn. I don’t even know any rugby players, part-time or not, and I can picture that dude exactly. He’s an asshole!
But there’s more. On the gratuitously showoffy wine list:
There are dry-stone walls and glass-fronted wine cabinets bulging with Montrachet and Pomerol, priced in four figures for men with teeny-weeny penises.
On the fries—er, chips:
Mind you, they’re crap chips, huge fat things that could exclude drafts. Who actually likes their chips this way? They’re advertised as coming with truffle and foie-gras salt, which is like getting a gold-plated, diamond-encrusted case for your smartphone because you’ve run out of things to spend money on. It’s a spoilt person’s version of luxury; the pillowy “chips” do not taste either of goose liver or truffle.
Man. I almost want to go to this place, just to laugh at it. And then do its dishes for like 72 weeks because I couldn’t dream of affording dinner there.