The Deep South (of London).

A humid Sunday afternoon with a threatening thundercloud hanging low above us was the perfect backdrop for a good old Southern, Louisiana-style crawfish boil. Its location, a railway arch in South London, was the perfect setting. The cause was also ostensibly worthy: ridding U.K. waters of an invasive species.

This is the mission of Crayfish Bob. This is both the name of the man and the name of the boils that have been a regular fixture at Gosnells Brewery in Bermondsey, all the way through summer. We found out about Bob’s boils recently, and after having our own lovely crayfish party, a kräftskiva, a Swedish tradition, we decided that trying a professional one was the right thing to do.

A caveat here: I’m not a massive fan of crayfish (less so now that I’ve learned they’re an invasive species). They’re luxuriously tasty, but I am never keen on working for my food, whether that’s nibbling around the bone and sinew of a chicken wing or peeling the wax off a Babybel, I find these crustaceans fiddly to pick apart. Liquid spurts out when you smash a claw, and drawing the poop line out of the tail while flicking away errant legs is not my idea of fun, especially when all is said and done, about a gram of meat is the reward. This, and the fact that I was missing a Formula 1 race, meant I’ve had Sunday lunches I’ve looked forward to more than this one.

Located about ten minutes away from Bermondsey Jubilee Line station and about the same from London Bridge, Gosnells is a microbrewery. It’s got its fair share of competition in the area, called the ‘Bermondsey Beer Mile’, a stretch of railway track that runs above countless breweries and eateries, all housed in their own cute arch. Inside, they all look the same; repurposed, gentrified clusterfucks of scattered benches, rough seating, and stained, chipped wooden trestle tables. Gosnells does have a U.S.P.: mead, which, to save you wondering, we never tried. However, we did enjoy their light and dry session I.P.A. and a fruity, cloudy N.E.I.P.A., both of which were individually lovely, though not groundbreaking.

The band, Crayfish Bob’s Crawdaddies, a pair of characterful chaps, one on a keyboard and xylophone and the other with a violin and a belting voice, were setting the place alight. Parked at the far end of the dingy arch, they were thrashing out covers of American folk classics with the lyrics changed to “Crayfish Bob this”, “Crayfish Bob that”. Even now, mangled lyrics about crustaceans remain stuck in my head, in a compulsively irritating way similar to how I can’t leave the house without checking all the taps are off. Twice.

Upon arrival, your name is checked off the list and you’re told to find a table. Once seated and bibbed up, you’re brought a little plastic tray of grilled chicken wings, flavoured nicely with a peppery rub of some sort. Ten minutes later, the trays of crayfish arrive, table by table, to “oohs” and “aahs” and a multitude of photos. Predominantly consisting of pesky Atlantic Crayfish, the trays – The European and I got one to share – also contained kielbasa (a Polish smoked sausage), new potatoes, and corn on the cob. Everything is boiled in a Cajun-spiced broth that imparts a lot of flavour, making the irritating task of snapping and peeling the crayfish oh so rewarding. For me, though, I was irresistibly drawn to the shell-free sausage, but it was great to see a feast on the tray, not just shellfish.

Despite the chaotic approach to service (find your own table, eat from a trough), I appreciated the details, like napkins and finger bowls being readily replenished, and our rapidly accumulating bowl of shells being emptied without asking. Periodically, Bob would come over and pour more of the boil into your tray, and he would keep doing this until, two hours later, stuffed, we cried “no more”. The refills were sparse on corn; we mentioned this and got more… no questions asked.

The lunch was a messy, tasty pantomime with a distinctly redneck feel to it. It was unique, sublime, and had an attention to detail you don’t often find anymore, even in quality restaurants. Just as our mouths were seizing up from well-cooked, spiced shellfish and in need of a palate-cleanser, Bob appeared on cue with watermelon. It was the perfect end to a perfect afternoon. It had been pouring while we were inside, and as we waddled out on the way to Liverpool Street Station to walk it all off, a light after-shower cleaned us up.

Crayfish, being the seasonal pests they are, means Bob has now closed at Gosnells, but he personally hosts pop-ups all over the country. I can’t underestimate how much fun this was, so if you want to get a little grubby, have a great meal, and save our rivers, follow his page and get ready to smile and sing your way to glorious indigestion.

The unlimited boil was £sixty-five per ticket including a welcome drink.