I was back in New York City for the first time in a year. I was going with a friend of mine to see Conan O’Brien perform his second night at Radio City Music Hall. We had some time to kill before the show started and he asked me where I wanted to eat. I would have been perfectly content grabbing a hot dog from the cart across the street on 7th Avenue and writing a thousand-word column about street food and how the humble hot dog cart became a staple of New York life. And every last syllable would have been bullshit. Fortunately, he had a better idea. He asked if I was in the mood for a burger. Having cut my consumption of red meat back by about 90 percent, I immediately agreed. So we started walking.
I asked what the name of the place was. “It doesn’t have one, I don’t think.” Ooh, mysterious. I followed my friend, wondering at what point he was going to knock me out with a chloroform soaked rag and put a burlap sack over my head. We walked for seven or eight blocks, and then turned around when my friend realized we were going in the wrong direction. At least that’s what he said. It’s also not entirely impossible that we were being tailed by the Super Secret Burger Patrol. At this point, my tunnel vision kicks in. I follow him as he opens the doors to a building and walks in.
I immediately feel uncomfortable. The cold rush of air from an AC turned up to 11 is nice, but I’m wearing jeans and a t shirt. There are people coming and going from this grandiose, yet understated lobby wearing suits that cost more than the rent on my apartment. Desk clerks and security guards give us a look, but not a look I’m used to receiving. It’s almost like they’re not surprised to see us. I tap my buddy on the shoulder. “Where are we, man? I don’t think I belong here.” He’s not paying attention. He’s busy looking around this place like Indiana Jones looking for another clue. We’re walking around this lobby when I hear a desk clerk answer a phone, “Hello, Parker Meridien Hotel. How many I help you?” I thought we were getting burgers. What are we doing in hotel that charges $400 a night for an economy room?
“I found it!” I follow my buddy into this deep dark corner of the lobby, hidden from public view by a floor to ceiling length curtain. I hear music. I look up and see a neon sign in the shape of a burger. I follow my friend in and look around the tiny poorly lit windowless room. The walls are lined with movie and rock posters. Iron Man 2 on the far wall and The Ramones to my left. A sign that was made with cardboard, magic marker and duct tape. I look over at my friend smiling. “I belong here.”
My buddy gives me the rundown on the place. “They’re a little like the ‘Soup Nazi.’ Know what you want before you go up there or they get mad at you. Tell them if you want a hamburger or cheeseburger, what you want on it, how you want it cooked and if you want fries or a soda.” So I decide and do my best to make George Costanza proud. Step forward. Eye contact. “Hamburger. Medium. The works.” Step to the right. The woman at the register is glaring at me. Uh-oh. I did something wrong.
“You want fries or drink or what?”
“No, thank you. No fries, no drink.”
She rolls her eyes and shouts at the guy working the flat top behind her. “Burger, medium, the works!” She takes my money, but I can tell she’s not happy about it. We get our food and turn to walk out and out of nowhere the line is out the door and into the lobby. In and out in the nick of time. We walk outside and my buddy wants to go back to 50th Street and 7th to eat. I have no such desire and unwrap this burger to admire it in the fading light of a Manhattan sunset. It’s magnificent. It’s the Moses of meat. Truly this is the burger of burgers. Of course, I’m also really hungry and hadn’t consumed anything but two cups of coffee that morning. Good quality ground chuck, moist, with ketchup, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle and onion sandwiched between a couple of cheap supermarket burger buns. One bite, and the juices from this holy grail of hamburgers runs down my arm and immediately drips all over my pant leg. My friend offers me a napkin. I refuse. “I will wear it as a badge of honor,” I say. But in hindsight, I really should have taken the napkin, because I got burger grease all over my favorite pair of jeans.
There’s this kind of one-upmanship with New Yorkers about where to get the best pastrami on rye, or the best burger, or the best sushi. Personally, I think this is all nonsense. Individual tastes can change on a daily basis. That was the best burger I could have possibly had that day. I could go back again and they could be having an off day, or it’s not as good as I thought it was. But at the end of the day, at least now I know where to get a good burger in town. And if I don’t make it back there again in the near future, at least I have the memories… and my grease stained pants.
Editor Update: The not so secret, secret burger joint is called "Burger Joint" at the Parker Meridien Hotel located on 119 W 56th St.
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