Wally and buck missoula3/28/2023 Some people like to scoop the spread right on top of the burger, others fold lettuce in between as a buffer, keeping the cheese at temperature longer-there's really no way you can screw this up. Even if you're not fortunate enough to live in a part of the world where prepared pimento cheese spread isn't sold in local supermarkets, it's simple enough to make the tang of sharp cheddar, a hint of spice from the pimentos, and creamy mayo are all perfect complements to a great hunk of ground beef. Why something so simple-and so delicious-as a pimento cheeseburger isn't on menus all across the country remains a mystery. The result is one of the smallest, best burgers in America. The simplicity is striking-a daub of fresh-ground, onions on top, cheese melting everywhere out of the pliable, miniature potato roll. Moments later, you're once again completely satisfied. (Life is about tradeoffs.) In the end, it's always the same-you unwrap your little burgers, and you think to yourself that you'd forgotten how small they actually are. Thanks to the pandemic, the rugby scrum at the counter might have gone away for awhile, with the restaurant pivoting to pickups at the back door, and instead of waiting cheek by jowl indoors, you could sit by the Hackensack River out back (it's so much nicer than you're thinking), wait for somebody to bellow your name into the fresh air, and leave without your clothes smelling semi-permanently like fried onions and sizzling fat. Today, it's history, but remains as relevant as ever, or at least as popular. There was a time when tiny diners like White Manna in Hackensack dotted the landscape, and this one's the descendant of a prototype exhibited at the 1939 World's Fair, meant to showcase the future of fast food. (Ketchup is always Red Gold, the preferred local alternative, but you probably don't need it.) This is one of Indy's essential bites, in one of the best bars in the Midwest. Belly up and order a double cheeseburger, so smashed it's not even funny, served Big Mac-style with bread in the middle, plus cheese on both patties, shredded iceberg, and a bit of mayonnaise spread thinly on the bun. Racks of Cheez-It packets, a DeKuypers display collecting dust, and a forgotten half-pot of coffee on the burner passes for decor at the glass-brick bar, backlit by pink neon. Over a century old, this woman-owned and -operated restaurant remains in the same family of Macedonian immigrants that founded the place, back in 1918. The now internationally popular style is nearly ubiquitous here, from regional chain restaurants to vintage mom-and-pop operations like The Workingman's Friend, a true tavern tucked into a part of Indianapolis you probably weren't looking for. Long before smash burgers were a trend, Hoosiers just called them burgers. Instead of a regular burger, which comes on a floppy, sesame bun that simply doesn't do the meat justice, opt for a classic patty melt, your choice of a quarter-pound, half-pound, or even three quarters if you're that hungry, stuffed between slices of crispy, buttery rye with loads of grilled onions and American cheese. Opened in 1942 by a family of Armenian immigrants, the restaurant, which moved to its permanent home in the 1950s, is fashioned like a classic old coffee shop, with a long counter and spacious booths, little league teams on summer nights, and politicians holding court at election time. Sure, the ones you've heard of may sound essential, but ask around, and the crotchety old-timers (*raises hand*) will tell you-flavors of the month come and go, so call us when one of them outlasts the accurately named Top Notch Beefburgers on the South Side, where they still grind fresh top round in-house and cook their hand-cut fries in beef tallow. Things get a little muddled in Chicago sometimes, a city where "popular" is sometimes confused with "best", and certainly when it comes to burgers.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply.AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |