Every week, a new spot.

Queues down the pavement.

Knives through buns.

“Best burger in London” debates like it actually mattered.

I was in it.

2013. Brixton. First shop.

And I still remember the gaffer saying it on repeat:

“Burger boom. Burger boom. Burger boom.”

Then quietly:

“This won’t last forever.”

At the time, that sounded mad.

Because London had gone all in.

But what we didn’t see — or didn’t want to see — was what was building underneath it.

The burger boom worked because it sat in a very specific moment:

Post-crash.

Low interest rates.

Cheaper labour.

Manageable rents.

Ingredients that hadn’t gone crazy yet.

A burger could feel premium without being expensive.

That balance doesn’t last.

At the same time, the market flooded.

Everyone opened a burger spot.

Then chains copied it.

Then investors scaled it.

Then spreadsheets took over.

What started as craft turned into replication.

And replication kills magic.

Then comes the real killer:

Price.

Because once a burger hits £15–£20…

It stops being casual.

You start questioning it.

Comparing it.

Expecting more from it.

And burgers were never built for that level of scrutiny.

At the same time, people changed.

Lighter food.

More variety.

More global influence.

Burgers didn’t disappear.

They just stopped being the centre of the conversation.

What’s left now isn’t a boom.

It’s the survivors.

The places that understood the product — not just the hype.

Because booms don’t end when people stop liking something.

They end when the economics stop making sense.