It’s a Christmas miracle: Wimpy has returned to Brighton. Today was its grand opening, and… well, I had to, didn’t I?

Its brand spanking new premises are on West Street, just down from Forbidden Planet and shorty before the madness of Molly Malone’s, Wetherspoons, LaserZone, Walkabout, and the sea.

It is the first Wimpy in the city in twenty years, unless you count the troubled Portslade branch, which it’s best not to.

There are several competing theories about Wimpy’s return, which has been masterminded by Charlie Bhangal, owner of the Worthing (reviewed) and Eastbourne (not yet reviewed) branches.

One: Mr Bhangal has noticed the massive growth in retro fast food joints in central Brighton, and reckons that Wimpy’s nostalgia factor and family appeal will help it compete against nearby upstarts Wendy’s [1] and Popeye’s chicken [2].

Two: Mr Bhangal is a crazed, out of control megalomaniac, who will not rest until the whole of the south coast lies crushed beneath one giant Wimpy restaurant.

Three: Mr Bhangal has learned I live in Brighton now, and thinks I’ll make it profitable on my own due to my insatiable and well-documented lust for average burgers.

I arrived at 6pm, and could see knives and forks – Wimpy’s signature eccentricity – piled into neat pyramids in the window. Behind, young service staff were standing around awaiting customers.

There were no balloons, or bunting, or special giveaways, or men dressed in giant Mr Wimpy suits, or any other indication that this was opening day. Though this could have all happened earlier on.

And who declared the Wimpy open, cutting the symbolic tape with a pair of giant novelty scissors? My hope is it was either Nick Cave or Norman Cook.

The proprietor gave me a friendly smile and told me to sit wherever I liked, bypassing the throng of eagerly awaiting waiting staff.

“Welcome back to Brighton”, I said, like the goofball I am.

“Thank you,” he replied, uncertainly.

It was at this point I remembered I was wearing a vintage Wimpy badge, and I prayed he hadn’t seen it and correctly identified me as some kind of crank.

Sat in a corner booth by a photographic representation of the platonic ideal of a Wimpy Halfpounder, my order was taken by a shy but very polite serving boy. Wimpy servers, much like the police, politicians, and high court judges, are getting younger and younger.

The restaurant was spotless, the booths – a crucial feature of a modern Wimpy imho – comfy and vast. Roundels nodding back to previous advertising campaigns adorned the walls.

The restaurant was not busy. There was a young polo-shirted man with what might be his girlfriend , a couple with a toddler, and two confused-looking Chinese students.

And me, of course, Britain’s second-most-famous Wimpy chronicler.

I relayed this to a friend via text, who was optimistic. “You can soak up the ambience before it’s mobbed”.

The polo shirted man was having the logos explained to him by his female companion. “So they’re saying chips instead of fries.

“So you don’t accidentally think you’re in America.”

The food arrives. The serving boy has got my order slightly wrong. This here is yer iconic [3] Quarter Pounder with Cheese and Chips, not the Halfpounder [4] I ordered.

Ah well. I was being greedy anyway.

I immediately posted the above photo to my WhatsApp group of fellow suburban forty something Wimpy fans. And back came the observation: “Chips in a ramekin, that’s a sign of the times”

The chips were typical Wimpy chips, aka not very good. The burger tasted exactly as it has always tasted, the salad fresher than usual and the Wimpy Special Sauce just that right combination of sweet and tartiness.

But there’s no getting away from it: this is not a quality burger. It is, as has always been the case, just that slightly bit less terrible than those of McDonald’s or Burger King, and served with much more charm in more relaxing surroundings.

And the staff and the proprietors were all lovely. I overheard the boss reassuring one of his box-fresh waitresses in the friendliest terms, and chatting to then customers like old friends.

The point, here, is cosy reassurance, and food that tastes exactly the same as it would have done in 1985, before Chernobyl, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and Gareth Southgate missing that penalty / becoming a style icon.

It’s a reminder of simpler times that never really existed; as such, I’m unsure whether enough youths will be lured away from the more fashionable chicken shops to the place of china plates and ring doughnuts with ice cream on top.

But I hope it abides.

When paying, I asked the manager how opening day had gone.

“Slow and steady,” he said.

I told him I’d spread the word.

The rankings

Quality of meal

6/10

Friendliness of staff

10/10

Value of meal

7.5/10

[1] Logo: a ginger teenager.

[2] Logo: a chicken, not the legendary sailor man, and friend of… Mr Wimpy. Which seems a shame.

[3] I hate this word and its overuse in marketing copy so I’m using it here ironically, then added this footnote because I was worried it wasn’t obvious that it was supposed to be ironic. Welcome to my brain!!

[4] Confusingly listed in the menu as a double Quarter Pounder, so I understand his error.