Are fancy burgers worthy of their foodie accolades, or is there beauty in a simple sandwich?
by Jamie Hausman
American cities–coast to coast, large and small–have gone bonkers for burgers. Every time I peruse my favorite restaurant round-up sites, I am slapped with burger lists like cheese on a Big Mac: “The 38 Essential Burgers Across The Country”, “The 33 Best Burgers In The Country”, “The 101 Best Burgers in America.” How are these lists compiled, I wonder? Who’s to judge what burgers appeal to all Americans? How can these simple, comforting sandwiches live up to this cronut-style hype? They can’t.
At their core, burgers are all simply composed with the same ingredients: bun, patty, cheese, toppings, sauce and another bun. How those ingredients are cooked or sourced individually is the key to this argument. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in Atlanta, all bread and butter pickles are not created equal, but the same can be said for any number of foods. Why do we obsess over burgers? One possible reason is they are typically the least expensive item on a dinner menu.
Consider my favorite burger in Atlanta, which is made by the team at Bocado. The entrees on the dinner menu vary between $21 and $25, but at the bottom of the list is a delicious $13 burger stack with fries. I tend to scan prices at menus, call it a post-college disorder, but I know several other people who do, too. That $13 sticker contrasts starkly (and makes room on the bill for a cocktail) against the $25 seared catch of the day. Burgers are just as filling, if not more so, than other entrees, but a restaurant could not get away with charging more than $15 for even the nicest burger. To further this point, the cheeseburger at Husk in Charleston and Nashville costs only $11 and comes with potato wedges. That burger is a blend of rib eye, brisket, chuck and Benton’s bacon, which don’t come cheap.
Earlier, I confessed that I do have a favorite, but it isn’t because the burger is seared in a glug of duck fat or because the bun is drizzled with truffle oil, though I think I’m on to something. It’s because Bocado’s burger is what I imagine when I get a taste for a burger on a random weeknight. The H&F Bread Co. bun has a puffed dome top and crisp flat bottom. The patty is simple, uncomplicated and I don’t have to wonder what part of the cow it comes from because I truly don’t care. The Kraft American cheese takes me back to barbecues and sneaking single slices to my dog Butch, and the pickles are made in-house with cucumbers from Green Ola Acres, which is less than 40 miles from the restaurant. If I really think on it, the Bocado burger stack includes my favorite combination of food: a guilty pleasure comfort food (read: Kraft singles) and locally harvested or baked ingredients.
Sure, I love an epicurean experience as much as the next foodie, but when I order a burger, it’s because I don’t want to be challenged. I want a simple, easy-to-eat, inexpensive meal that will fill me up and make any residual hunger (or hangover) pains subside. People who expect to consume an earth-shattering burger at a restaurant are only setting themselves up for failure. I truly believe that chefs aim for simplicity, especially now in the peak of local dining, if only to showcase the beautiful ingredients.
Shortly after I moved to Atlanta, I made it my mission to taste the coveted Holeman + Finch burger, which is on each of the lists mentioned above. Because of the limited amount of burgers available at the restaurant each evening, I decided to plan a brunch visit with some out-of-town friends, thinking the crowds would be less aggressive on a Sunday morning when the rest of the city is at church. I thought wrong. We were quoted a one-hour wait and ended up waiting for almost three hours for a tiny table in the crammed dining room. Starving and salivating for the prized patties, we were disappointed by the product, which tasted more like meat charred beyond recognition, sandwiched between two wilted buns. We left Holeman + Finch still hungry and feeling as if the unicorn-of-a-burger we were promised was butchered in front of us. It was not worth the trouble.
Foodies in this town argue over little else, as the cuisine and neighborhoods are diverse enough to have a range of offerings, but burgers are king in Atlanta. As a Westsider, Bocado burger is my go-to stack. Some people prefer the small chains of boutique burgers: Flip Burger, Yeah Burger and Farm Burger. But what is the difference, aside from the ingredient sources, between a Burger King or Wendy’s burger and a cheesy double stack from a local restaurant? The composition is exactly the same: bun, patty, cheese, toppings, sauce and bun. The simplicity of steps offers an abundance of customizable variations when it comes to type of cheese, sauce and toppings. So why do we care which is best if it’s all determined by individual tastes?
After eating so many burgers, you begin to relish the simplicity and realize what makes certain ones better than the rest. Take the burger at Husk in Charleston, for example. The patties are a blend of ribeye, brisket and chuck that’s infused with Benton’s bacon. Unless you have a meat grinder and access to the best bacon available, there’s no way you’re flipping these on your home grill on a Tuesday night, and they taste just as special as the trip was to find them. Their complex layers and smokiness are worth the fuss, and the rest of the burger is simple: bread and butter pickles, American cheese, house-made sauce and bun.
At the end of the day, I still wait in obscenely long lines at New York’s Shake Shack and I still compare my present burgers with those of the hauntingly delicious past. My proposition, however, is to stop ranking them definitively. Is it a Saturday night, make-a-special-trip, get-fancy burger? Or is it a Tuesday night sweatpants stack? They’re all good and delicious and smothered in our favorite items, but the hype clouds their simplicity. Even amidst a food festival dedicated solely to finding the best combination, there’s no clear winner, but the formula is crystal clear: bun, patty, cheese, toppings, sauce, bun.
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Jamie Hausman writes our Whisk ‘Til Combined column. She’s a Chicago native, Mizzou graduate and a resident of Atlanta, Ga. She adores her adopted home and spends her time writing, editing and pitching stories to local and national online publications, as well as exploring new neighborhoods and restaurants. Check her out on Twitter @jamiehausman.
Top photo shows a Juicy Lucy burger (made with cheese in the middle of the patty) being served at the 5-8 Club, a Minneapolis bar that lays claim to having invented the delicious sandwich.
