The golden call of frying oil, the mystic smells floating threatening to wreak havoc on the diet. The call trickles down dark alleys, as well as the uptown streets, calling to one and all unbiased. Cheese oozes, bubbling. Grease crackles and snaps. Lettuce and onions are there merely for the crunch factor. A thick patty of beef sits in glorious chiasm, accompanied by mustard slathered liberally on top. Ketchup leaks from some unknown source beneath. Sesame seeds are on the bun, but rarely stay put. This is an experiment gone right.
Americans pay tribute to Lionel Sternberger, teeth chomping away blissfully; the burger is sits piled on a plate. The jaw stretches, struggling to get around the colossal mass. Sometimes, when hilarity is feeling particularly happy, the patty contains juice, catching a victim by surprise. The top bun slides off the back, revealing pickles and tomatoes, pure goodness previously unseen. Insides struggle to get outside, skirmishing with the patron, releasing condiment at inopportune moments. They don’t mind really. The mess is wiped up, and more burger is devoured. A burger is washed down with another burger. And later, long after, the burger is still tasted at intervals, an unwelcome reminder of happier times.
