10:22am, sometime in the British Summertime 2002. Wimpy. Damn, we’re still only at Wimpy. I had asked for an assignment and for my sins, they gave me one. To seek out the finest burger in London and eat it with extreme prejudice. Or with a napkin, the orders weren’t too clear on that point.

The hunt begins in London’s not particularly fashionable Holborn. If you don’t know it, it’s on the fringe of the West End and largely populated by lawyers. It also has something quite rare; a functioning Wimpy in central London. Which just happens to be next to the Food Standards Agency. Some would say that combination is asking for trouble. Some would say this was a fairly pointless exercise. Some would say Jamie Oliver is a talented and charismatic young chef. I chose not to say anything.

The rules of the hunt were fairly simple. We’re here for the burgers and only the burgers. No fries, onion rings, apple pies or chicken by-products could be taken into account. We couldn’t always guarantee to be comparing like with like so we aimed as much as possible for the “flagship” burger. Where possible, we went for takeaway. And for our own sanity and poor long suffering taste buds, we spaced them out through the day.

This is what we found. You may not like what you are about to read…