Stars and steaks: Passyunk’s USA-themed spot in Waterloo
(Picture: Matt Writtle)And so to Waterloo, London’s grey-walled nadir, where the culinary highlights include an All Bar One beside a Slug and Lettuce. As far as I can tell, there are about three good things about this part of town: Abba’s banger, the Young Vic, and the Old Vic. The London Eye doesn’t count — its whole thing is taking punters up and away to peer at much nicer neighbourhoods.
The addition of Passyunk Avenue, then, is a welcome one. It sits on Leake Street, in the warren under the railway tracks where the walls are a sleeve tattoo of graffiti and once nothing existed but skateboards and the smell of weed, but where presently there is a club, board game cafe, bao house and MamuÅka!, the enthusiastically-punctuated Polish kitchen. And now this place, part American dive bar, part diner, and named for a street in Philadelphia where two famous cheesesteak houses, Pat’s and Geno’s, sit opposite each other and pretend to feud. Passyunk does what they do: beers, bourbon and subs that glow with orange cheese.
In Fitzrovia there is another Passyunk that reliably seems to call last orders whenever I walk in, which I try not to take personally (Waterloo also shuts too early: beer with a whiskey chaser at £7 is a deal priced to corrupt; it needs time to). But whereas Fitzrovia is titchy — improbably squeezed between restaurants that have been there forever and pay no mind to fads (see glorious Greek spot The Four Lanterns, est 1970) — this one runs to 3,000 sq ft, or about half an American football pitch.
It’s fitting. The whole thing is so American you briefly wonder if it’s a parody: there are stars and stripes flags, TVs screening superbowl reruns, banners for the US navy, ice hockey kits pinned up in lieu of paintings. Other decorative touches include a pig’s head with a green cap (no idea) and a stained-glass window dedicated to a man with black eyes, missing teeth and huge shoulder pads (ditto). There’s a sign at the entrance reading: “Yo! Wait to be seated”, a soundtrack dedicated to guitar solos and questionably cheerful staff (“Good choice!” they said. “Tap water?” I asked, doubtfully). You get the idea.
The answer is to acquiesce. What other choice when a cocktail turns up both disquietingly orange and garnished with googly eyes? This “Grittini” was, the boss explained, dreamt up in honour of the Philadelphia Flyers’ mascot Gritty (who also is orange and has googly eyes, “like a f***ed up Muppet”). It was sweet — the fault of the vanilla vodka and orange soda more than the peepers — but then, it should be in a place like this. Passyunk is not in the good taste game, but it definitely is in the good time game.
The menu is a pile of cheesesteaks and terrific chicken wings (plus two salads, which I suspect were a begrudging addition). My friend Catt, face smeared in buffalo sauce, grinned: “This is filth, but very lovely filth.” Spot on. Food here is fun. Tater tots, deep-fried spheres of grated potato, came splattered with “Wiz” cheese, their own riff on Cheez Whiz. “We use actual cheddar,” came a proud explanation, “Cause Whiz is mostly plastic. And you’re not allowed to eat plastic over here.”
The staff are questionably cheerful. ‘Good choice!’ they said. ‘Tap water?’ I asked, doubtfully
Good to know. The menu’s other dietary notes included the not-entirely-illuminating “contains pork”, next to, er, the roast pork sandwich (pesto-slathered and delicious). I could keep on, but why? The place, daft bits and all, is a riot. Did I care my pickleback martini didn’t have more than a thimble of gin in it? Not especially. A classic Philly cheesesteak — bulging with tender ribeye steak, onions and more Wiz — was comfort between two slices. They do a sub filled with pizza sauce, there’s an ice cream sandwich. Bar staff pour US beers and slam down shots. In the end, no-one worries about what they’re eating, though it’s all done well, because the arch booms with a crowd loud enough to mostly muffle the trains overhead. A good time place, remember? And so, in spite of myself, I ended up unironically muttering “God bless America”. Bizarre. But you might, too.
