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Arguments
are heated. Debates revolve around the grinding of meat, the shape
of
the patty, the cost/benefit ratio. Reader-eaters, I submit to you that
there is no such thing as the best burger, no combination of meat and
bun that is universally and undeniably above all others, even though
free
papers from coast to coast all claim their city has one. See, the best
burger in the world is a personal thing. To borrow obnoxious Microsoft
language, it's more like "MY best burger." It's the burger
that speaks to me and my particular tastes and prejudices. Finding
your own
best burger, well, it's like falling in love. You think longingly about
it when you are with other, lesser, burgers. You introduce your friends
to your best burger, and they like it, they like it a lot, but they
don't
truly appreciate it like you do, embrace its appealing foibles and
recognize its innate superiority. They don't look at it lovingly before
taking a
big bite.
Because
of the name, I pictured some kind of fancy French grinding going on in
back, some secret technique handed down through generations of European
butchers, but the "French" actually refers to the bun! They
say it's a French roll, I have my doubts, but whatever it is, it's KEY
to the success of this top-notch burger. Clearly, the crafters of this
delight have a sound understanding of the vital role played by the bun.
How many burgers might have achieved real greatness, if not for this weak
link? The bun must do its job! It must support the burger structurally,
until the juicy end. Yet it must not be dry or hard. The bun should be
tasty, but not a show-stealer in terms of flavor. And don't even talk
to me about focaccia. A fine bread, I'm sure, but used as a bun? Puh-leeze.
In functionality and taste the NWFM bun surpasses all others. This bun
is the perfect frame for a true masterpiece. The meat is great. Joe isn't
the only one who grinds his own chuck daily. Very tasty. It's the right
thickness: hearty and hand formed but not rotund. There are no decisions
to be made on your part about degree of doneness, something that I am
grateful for. You get all the fixings: lettuce, tomato, pickle, onion,
"sauce." The mustard is in big squeeze bottles on the table.
If you ask, they bring ketchup: it's served in little Dixie cups, kind
of like JELL-O shots.
The
clientele has a savvy look about them - the place is filled with construction
workers and mail carriers, well known as the pilot fish of primo lunch
spots. And then there are the semi-unemployed, like me, and the productive
members of society, like non-profit Liz, who started this whole affair
by whispering, "mmm....steakburger cheese..." in the middle
of our Tuesday night GIS class, causing the stomachs of the entire class
to rumble in unison, and our professor to duck under a table for fear
of earthquake.