I cook burgers. Every. Single. Day. My loose estimate is that over the past three years I’ve probably cooked, no joke, around ten thousand burgers. I can flip burgers with my eyes closed; I can cook 20 patties to medium rare simultaneously. I can put a caramelized crust on a burger so perfect that it would make Ron Swanson weep. I’m far from the best burger flipper there ever was, but I know my way around a spatula.
As any craftsman who takes pride in his craft does, I have spent hours, more than any human rightfully should, contemplating the various aspects of the culinary canvas that is the classic American burger. Where you might idly daydream about sandy beaches or Channing Tatum (ok, I daydream about Channing Tatum) I mostly just think about how to make the best burger. This has turned into something compulsive bordering on insane. Join me, won’t you?
The perfect burger starts with a great first bite; the bun, lightly sweet, filling your mouth until yielding easily under pressure from your tongue. It doesn’t overhang the burger; it knows its role is solely vehicle, not starring player. For my money, a potato roll’s hoi polloi heart takes a brioche’s bourgeoisie fanciness for pure burger satisfaction every day of the week. That said, some burgers simply demand a brioche, with their juices that would turn a potato roll into a soggy mess that dissolves under your thumb.
The patty should be thick enough to feel substantial without forcing you to open your jaw to an uncomfortable degree. A burger should be cooked on a griddle rather than a grill: arguments otherwise are ridiculous. Whatever you gain from the “smokiness” of the grill (I just love that subtle charcoal and lighter fluid finish) is completely overshadowed by the wonder and joy that a crisp caramelized crust brings. I’m just saying that Louis is on the short list of boy child names. (Maillard AND Pasteur? It’s a pretty decent name). Those thin little strips of caramelization you get on a grill? I’ll take the method that caramelizes the whole top of the burger, thanks. None of the juices drop off into the charcoal nether, either.
The seasoning and temperature of the patty are the most direct communication of the chef’s expertise, attention, and love. My perfect temperature is just on the rare side of medium – cooked enough that the texture of the burger asserts itself on the bite through, but rare enough that it contributes a bit of its own sauce. Salt and pepper are like referees at sporting events; when they are working well you don’t even notice them, and when there is too much of them everything is awful.
The accessory toppings and condiments I generally leave to the producer of the burger – trusting that they know what best compliments their star player. That does mean I punish particularly harshly unripe tomatoes, wilted lettuce, limp pickle slices and their ilk. Most burgers need some sauce too – ketchup and mustard work. A dry burger offered without even ketchup on the table will earn a cluck from me that would make a nosy neighbor proud.
Pause a moment while I pinch myself to relieve my Jewish guilt; I also can’t remember the last burger I had without cheese. (I read over that sentence and grimaced slightly, and then turned on the national anthem and saluted my nearest golden arches.) Cholesterol levels notwithstanding, a single slice of cheese strategically melted on a burger can dramatically upgrade the dish. I reject out of hand anyone who argues that American cheese is best. (Looking at you, Shake Shack.) Monterrey Jack melts best but lacks a flavor that asserts itself over the burger. A smokey Gruyere is spectacular with some caramelized onions but lacks the versatility to act as the jack-of-all trades building block that something as ubiquitous as a burger. (Shout out to bleu cheese with some crispy fried onions in this same category.) The solution, as it is for just so so many things in life, is cheddar. Good cheddar cheese offers an assertive earthy and nutty cheese that melts well. It also happens to pair really nicely with (Oh how the guilt waves wash over me) bacon.