A Veritable Bevy of Burgers

Oh, my poor vegetarian friends.  Once again you shall be subjected to a meat-centric post.  I swear I eat vegetables!  I really do!  But somehow this blog always seems to heavily feature my base, carnivore impulses.  Although I’ve realized that I don’t have too many pure vegetarian friends left.  Many of you have given in to the seductive lure of the flesh.  But to those few hold-outs, I offer my apologies.

I like to fancy myself as something of a french fry connoisseur.  I have sampled the crispy goodness far and wide, from the shores of New York, through the corn fields of Indiana, to the canals of Amsterdam (my memories of those last fries are hazy, for some reason.  But I think they had deep insight into the universe).  It’s only in recent years, however, that I have truly come to appreciate the french fry’s soul mate, the quality burger.  A well-proportioned, juicy, grilled burger, medium rare please (and that means pink, not grey, you fools!) with a hefty slice of cheddar.  And please toast that bun.  If we’re going to be all highfalutin about it we could replace the cheddar with swiss (or dare I say gruyere!) and pile on some sautéed mushrooms.  But I don’t want any of that Kraft American cheese product shit on a hockey puck piece of meat thrown between two slices of wonder bread.  So just don’t even try it, buddy. 

In other words, I guess I’ve become a bit of a burger snob.  Luckily there are number of places vying for the chance to take me down a few notches.  I received my first bit of humbling at that most trendy of burger joints, Shake Shack.  At my first trip there, after waiting on line for 16 hours, 43 minutes, and 18 seconds, I was finally given the privilege of ordering.  And I ordered my preferred burger: medium rare, with cheddar.  Except they only cook their burgers one way.  And you can’t choose your cheese.  Well, I’ve just waited on line for 27 hours, 54 minutes, and 46 seconds, so what can I do?  I accept their fascist burger with a strained smile and make my way over to the inadequate seating.   But you know what?  I was wrong, and Shake Shack was right.  The burger was awesome.  True, it wasn’t a gourmet event by any means, but there was something about biting into it that just made me feel like I was coming home.  It’s like they elevated your typical burger to thing of nostalgic beauty.  You feel sunlight dappling your face as your race your childhood friends through a meadow.  Then suddenly you’re riding your bike down a dusty dirt road, with your faithful dog at your side.  Oh look!  There’s Harvey the friendly milk man making his rounds.  And just beyond him is the General Store, where Old Man McIntire sells rock candy and root beer.  Yes, it’s true, Shake Shack will transport you back to an imagined Norman Rockwell childhood.  It’s like Our Town except with props, no death, and no goddamn sermonizing Stage Manager.  All this, Shake Shack will provide.

You’d think that after this experience I would have a bit more leniency towards places that won’t cook a burger to order.  But oh no.  I still hadn’t seen the true ways of the force.  I was therefore horrified when I couldn’t get my burger cooked medium rare in – wait for it – Scotland.  Really people.  What kind of an idiot asks for undercooked meat in the UK?  Why didn’t I just order the lobotomy special and be done with it?  The first time I attempted to order just such a bacteria-infested burger the Scottish waitress looked at me like I had 12 heads (all of which were just desperate for a splash of Mad Cow disease), and then said that under absolutely no circumstances would they serve me a burger cooked less than well done.  In this instance I decided to pass on the burger, because I wanted it MY way, dammit!  And if it came with a side of degenerative brain disease, then so be it! 

Fortunately for me, I was in Scotland for two weeks, so I had time to mend my foolish ways.  Not that I felt I needed to, mind you.  I was secure in my culinary prejudices.  But the next time I found myself faced with this dilemma a burger was, in fact, the only available food source.  We’re pretty spoiled here in New York.  If I said to myself at 2 am, “Gee, I could really go for goat stew, baked Alaska, and a cricket taco” I’m pretty sure I could find a way to have all of these things delivered to me.  And while Edinburgh does not subscribe to the draconian bar hours of London (closing at 11pm?!?!  Que the hell!), its pubs do tend to stop serving food around 9pm.  This becomes a bit of problem when your show ends at 8pm, and it takes a full hour to round people up and decide to which of the abundant public houses we would be giving our custom that night.  So one evening, post show, we all ended up at a lovely beer garden that had no kitchen other than a tiny hut with an open flame, meat, and a cast iron pan filled with sautéed onions.  My hunger won out, and I let the shady Eastern European man behind the grill give me the standard burger, on a roll, with mature cheddar and onions.

Friends, I have finally seen the light.  This was quite possibly the best burger I’ve ever had.  I was a pig-headed fool, a stubborn, unrelenting New Yorker, who couldn’t see past her own biases to the fact that when you’re dealing with something as simple as a burger, the quality of the ingredients is everything.  As I stared rapturously into my roll, my dining companions laughed and informed me that all beef in Scotland is pure Angus – which is kind of the best stuff ever.  So no matter what you do to it, it’s going to be stellar.  The meat was juicy, tender, savory.  The roll was fluffy and fresh, and dear sweet lord, the mature cheddar – I could happily eat mature cheddar on everything, everyday.  Seriously: shredded wheat, escargot, ice cream – bring it on!  The caramelized, glistening onions added just the right touch of sweetness.  It was all I could do not to run to that Eastern European Grill God and beg him for just one more bite of such sweet ambrosia. 

While in Scotland I ate a surprising number of good meals.  I mean, we haven’t even touched on the nation’s dedicated, inspiring relationship to the potato.  And the seafood!  And the scotch! (okay, technically scotch is not food, but it is essential to life, so it counts).  But today I pay homage to the humble Scottish burger – you were there for me in my times of post-performance, hunger-induced hysteria.  You sustained me through not a few rounds of debauchery.  You’ve helped me start to move past my intolerant, prissy ways.  What can I say?  Some people have therapy; I have Scottish burgers.

(Shake Shack, please don’t get jealous.  I’ll still return to you anytime I need to feel the innocence of youth!  Also, you’re right up the street and Scotland is, well, in Scotland.  Although this is New York – and perhaps Scotland delivers….)