I probably at one point would be able to vociferously defend a ranking of the fast food franchises in this country. I don’t even know what that would be any more. They’re all, y’know, what they are. Fine. I simply don’t have the energy to care about that kind of thing these days. But if I did. Oh but if I did. Shake Shack would definitely be up the top. In the last year, I’ve found myself spending an increasing amount of time in the West End, and that typically means going into Piccadilly Circus, spending some time at Waterstones, and heading to whichever theatre I’m heading towards via the Shake Shack on Liecester Square. My burger of choice is the Shackmeister, a testament to the idea that simple things done well are the best things in life. A smashed burger in a potato bun with cheese, crispy fried onions, and their own burger sauce. Done. The meat is well-flavoured, the onions add a satisfying texture to the mix, the cheese and sauce combine beautifull. I might be tempted to double up, I might not. Maybe the crinkle cut chips (occasionally underseasoned but not disastrously so). Maybe a lemonade. An immensely satisfying, predictable experience.