Cheeseburger Show

Sweets & Savories: Foie Gras Burger

2009-05-20T15:00:00Z

Behold: one of the most luxurious, excessive, insane burgers ever formed by human hands. There are two camps here.

Either view Sweets & Savories' take on the humble burger as so wildly indulgent and pretentious that you can practically hear Frenchy counting his euros (it's a $17 burger). Or, and I would suggest this route, suspend judgment and consider this purely on taste, in which case, it's among the greatest pleasures that will ever wash over your palate.

Let us begin with 10 ounces of "American Kobe" beef. Although fattier than your standard patty, it's also less savory from a meat-protein standpoint. It makes up for this with an astoundingly tender texture, biting through is as easy as closing your lips.

The foie gras pate is placed atop the beef and then thrown into the oven as one, with the rich, livery oil melting into the burger. A brioche bun is brushed with olive oil and toasted on a griddle top, until it achieves a crunchy-then-soft texture. A bed of arugula is placed on top of the bottom bun, the beef above, the foie gras above that, a drizzle of white truffle oil on top of everything. And, just because, a dollop of mayonnaise with bits of black truffle is plopped to the side.

So you stare at this and wonder: Is this necessary? Some child in South Asia is eating gruel and I've got foie gras and truffle oil over Kobe beef?

Mute the buyer's remorse, and take a bite. What a pleasure. It's lavish and buttery, extravagant in the way whole cream is rich, earthy from the truffles, a hint of iron from the foie gras in each bite. At some point (probably around the black truffle mayo), this burger ceased to be just a burger and became a Maserati between two buns.

Schoop's: Double Cheeseburger

2009-05-14T13:01:07Z

I would like to quote from the home page of Schoop's Hamburgers:

"Schoop's hamburgers have been a part of the Calumet Region of Indiana and Illinois since 1948. It's the area southeast of Chicago where gutsy workers make steel, refine oil and build things big."

This would also adequately describe Schoop's Double Cheeseburger. Brawny. Light on subtlety. Rough around the edges, in the best sense.

The highlight is the two-third pound of well-done beef, flattened and griddled-seared into an profoundly crispy edge. Take a bite: it tastes like steak.

When you cut open the sandwich with a fork and knife (really, silverware is the only way to attack this burger), steam billows out. It's hot, beefy, tangy from the pickles, rich from the cheese and mayo. You're not so much eating a cheeseburger as you are digging into a beef casserole, one that fills up the entirety of the red basket it's served in.

It's also oily. The bottom bun doesn't serve its intended purpose, but more as a grease absorber between the patty and the parchment paper. But even that is delicious. This is one of the finest burgers in the area.

Phil's Kastle: Monster Burger with Cheese

2009-05-14T00:17:30Z

There is nothing wrong with the idea of "no frills." I, seeker of meat-filled wonder, need not the next incarnation of sliced bread to be enlightened.

Thereby I can heartily recommend the Monster Burger with Cheese at Phil's Kastle Hamburgers, on the southern edge of Chicago a stone's throw from Indiana. Honestly, you wouldn't come here unless you lived in the neighborhood. But maybe you should.

This is as old-school of a diner as old schools goes -- red checkerboard floors, faded plastic menu boards, a short-order cook named Bill sporting an apron and paper hat who says the secret of his burgers is "tender love and care." Castle spelled with a "K," a relic of restaurants that used to misspell common words in their title, just for the sheer novelty.

I suspect "Monster" is a clever gimmick for this half-century-old South Side institution (hasn't always been in this same location on 95th Street). There is nothing monstrous about the burger. It is a by-the-books rendition: juicy patty pink in the middle, a semi-melted American cheese, bun that's entirely soft except along its circumference, where it is golden and toasty, plus your standard condiments.

It's $2.99. It's cooked to order, served with love. It's tasty. There is nothing to complain about.

The Capital Grille: Signature Cheeseburger

2009-05-13T00:00:31Z

Lunch-goers in River North can't afford the "European lunching" method, that is, spend three hours and a couple bottles of wine slow dining.

Acknowledging our hurried lifestyles, The Capital Grille and its "Signature Cheeseburger" has, thankfully, saved us those few laborious steps of biting and chewing, by incorporating bacon, onions and Havarti cheese within its ground sirloin patty.

There is the obvious question: why deprive us from the crispy textural bliss of bacon? Well, I guess that's just how they do it. And the resulting cheeseburger is rather spectacular, if not spectacular in size: the patty is juicy, a whiff of porcine smokiness though undeniably beef. The house-baked onion rolls are toasted golden and perfect, not to mention correctly proportioned to patty and accoutrements. The cheeseburger comes with ketchup, mustard and aioli to the side, but that's just gilding the lily.

The crispy and thick truffled French fries that accompanies are in a word: garlicky.

Fatburger: Kingburger with Cheese

2009-04-25T23:20:38Z

Because the chances of In-N-Out Burger coming to Chicago are slim-to-nil, we'll collectively let out a heavy sigh and settle for Fatburger, a consolation prize when it comes to Southern California fast food imports.

It's a chain that hasn't quite achieved the start-a-new-religion status the way a Pollo Campero or Krispy Kreme has. Indeed, when we visited Fatburger on its first day in October, it was decidedly low key -- no customers camping out, no huge media presence, just a band of overeager and toothily enthusiastic employees who take your order and yell out in unison "Fatburger!" or "Chili Dog!" or whatever else on the menu. Even that, I'm sure the workers were already tired of this call-and-response charade.

It's called Fatburger for an obvious reason. The half-pound Kingburger I ordered was only Level 3 in a one-to-five scale of burger size. The Triple Kingburger comes with 1 ½ pounds of meat and a "bring a wheelbarrow" disclaimer, which proportionally speaking is like two slices of Wonder Bread sandwiching a baby calf. If you can complete this in one sitting, your picture goes up on the Wall of Fame.

Mere mortals like me settled for the regular ol' Kingburger. Bacon, cheese and a fried egg can be added for 99 cents each, which I did.

When it arrived, it arrived -- a juicy and sloppy two-handed sandwich requiring a snakelike unhinging of the jaw to devour. The sandwich had the tang of sweet relish; the bed of shredded lettuce and tomato slices providing a cool counterpoint to the warm, American cheese-shellacked patty. The beef patty, with flecks of black pepper, had the mealy, break-apart quality that suggested freshly ground. The toasted bun claim was not so, resulting in premature soggification. The egg and bacon were not worth the $1.98 investment.

On the regional familiarity scale, I'd score the Fatburger a notch below Culver's ButterBurger. The dealbreaker, however, was the price, which for a quick-serve restaurant in the suburbs is indefensible. The "King Deal" with onion rings and a lemonade came to $14.77 (Interestingly, Kanye West's "Golddigger" was playing on the loudspeakers.)

That said, here's a nice, filling sandwich that looks sumptuous and inviting before you bite into it, and leaves you with regret, a tinge of shame and a Level 7 food coma.

David Burke Primehouse: 40-Day Dry Age Burker

2009-04-25T17:35:13Z

Much ink has been spilled in local media about "Prime," the name of a 2,500-pound Black Angus bull who lives on a Kentucky farm and sires all day (actual process not as romantic as advertised).

Prime's seed is our gain: Beef from his offspring can be had at David Burke Primehouse, the River North steakhouse perhaps most notable for its impressive Himalayan salt-lined dry-aging room.

This is the temperature- and moisture-controlled locker where meat is kept and refrigerated, slowly transforming from simple slabs of beef into beef to the nth power. Two things happen here: Moisture evaporates, which causes the meat to shrink and concentrate its flavors. Meanwhile, connective tissues break down, tenderizing it. The smell of the dry aging room is like breathing in an atmosphere of truffles.

Executive Chef Rick Gresh said he experimented with different stages of dry aging and found 40 days of dry aging ideal for his burger -- imparting subtle blue cheese and mushroom flavors in the meat.

After charbroiling the patty at 900 degrees F, it's plated on the toasted potato bun, slathered with bacon mayonnaise and topped with pan-fried, garlicky spinach and crispy shallots. Gresh said those ingredients are the mainstay dishes of a steakhouse (baked potatoes, creamed spinach et al.), which he wanted to re-create on a bun.

Biting in, the texture is a trip -- creamy, crispy, warm and tender, a hit of smokiness from the bacon, and the juices from the unctuous beef patty induce your eyes to shut as you savor the moment privately.

Five Guys Burgers & Fries

2009-04-25T17:15:19Z

Let's get the blurb out of the way.

"Five Guys! Wowza! Your fries are spud-tacular!"
--Kevin Pang, Chicago Tribune

You'll have to indulge me, because Five Guys Burgers and Fries seems to enjoy trumpeting its accolades. Signs along the restaurant walls, framed newspaper clippings and the menus tout what marketing folks call "blurbs," single-sentence raves that stroke the ego. "Best No Frills Burger!" one magazine lauds. "Heaven on a bun!" another publication shouts. "Reader's Choice #1 Hamburger '99 thru '08!" raves Washingtonian Magazine.

If you're going to hang blue ribbons and first-place certificate in your room, you better have the goods to back it up. Washington, D.C.-based Five Guys has been described by some as an In-N-Out of the East Coast. Let's get this out of the way: In-N-Out, your trophy is safe.

But Five Guys, with locations in Oak Park and Lincoln Park, is a welcome addition to the upscale fast-food scene. If I can boil down my opening day lunch experience into another blurb, I'd say, "Come for the fries, stay for the hot dogs. Try a burger if you're so inclined."

Let's tackle these in reverse order.

The standard cheeseburger ($4.99), messy though not sloppy, comes with two griddled patties: a hand-formed patty of non-frozen top sirloin and chuck. Per safety reasons, as well as taste consistency and cooking time, these are all served well done.

Both burgers I tried were under-seasoned, though the assortment of free toppings jazzed up the flavor somewhat: Grilled mushrooms, jalapeno peppers, A-1 sauce, among other accouterments, are complimentary. The best part are the buns: an eggy, brioche-like bread with that bakery whiff of sweetness. I still prefer a Steak and Shake burger.

The hot dogs, meanwhile, are a sacrilege to Chicago sensibilities. But this being Oak Park, with hot-dog scofflaws outside prosecutorial jurisdiction, I can say these are fantastic. An all-beef Hebrew National dog, split in half and seared to a crispy exterior, is topped with brittle-crunchy bacon and sliced Kraft American singles (This version is $3.99).

But the thing that Five Guys has going for it are the remarkable French fries (regular size $2.59 -- and oh, named "Best '08 by Capital Region Living Magazine!"). These double-fried fries -- which foodies know yields, hands-down, the perfect texture--have that rustic, imperfect-shaped, skin-on look. The fries tip more crispy than crunchy, and the interior has a creamy consistency with assertive potato-ey notes. They're dusted with liberal amounts of Cajun spice, giving them kick and complexity. They're really, really, really delicious.

Bennigan's: Guinness Bacon Cheeseburger

2009-04-25T16:28:00Z

Last July, in rather dramatic fashion, Bennigan's was shuttered across Chicago en masse. Managers received late-night phone calls to immediately lock up their restaurants, and employees arrived the next day to discover they had joined the ranks of the unemployed. We thought that was the end of that.

But in recent weeks, media outlets around town have received press releases about the Bennigan's on Michigan Avenue, the only one left standing in Chicago, rising from the ashes. With such high foot traffic (right across from the Art Institute) and nice weather forthcoming, this was a good time to revisit this Irish-themed family restaurant, and its Guinness Glazed Bacon Cheeseburger.

Could glaze come in Guinness Stout form? Apparently so, as it has the color and viscosity as the refuse barrel at Jiffy Lube. As one dining companion noted, "it tasted like alcoholic hoisin sauce." The syrupy sweet glaze masked a rubbery beef patty that tasted as if it came in bulk from the Costco freezer.

I did enjoy the textural contrast -- crispy, pliable, fatty lengths of bacon that worked with the Guinness glaze, an eggy sesame seed bun toasted on the rims and golden straw onions. It's also enormous: one burger easily fills up two guests. But the beef, boy, you can masquerade with epoxy, but discerning diners can taste through it.

I still like the Monte Cristo better.

Top Notch Beefburger

2009-04-24T23:27:07Z

Among city friends, many of whom claim to be gourmands, few find reason to venture south. And here they were, claiming to be expert cheeseburger hunters.

Sure, you'll get street cred for name-dropping Kuma's Corner, but might I suggest a place on the South Side to skyrocket your burger quotient? For those who live in Beverly, Top Notch Beefburger on 95th Street is spoken in familiar, if not reverential terms. The diner goes back to 1942 but has been at its current location since 1964. The decor remains a time capsule from that bygone era: the wood paneling, the long countertop, the dated water paintings.

When I asked owner Diran Soulian to show me how his burgers are made, he didn't hesitate: A cook reached into the meat locker and hoisted out an entire leg of cow--it must have be three feet from hoof to round--onto the kitchen counter. Thwack. It was the sound of beef legitimacy.

Soulian said their goal is to get from cow to grinder to cast-iron griddle to customer within one day. Which means the meat is as fresh as it comes.

By appearances alone, the patty looked to be three parts red to one part white, roughly 25 percent fat. Angioplasties be damned, this translates into a burger that's mighty juicy, akin to biting into a stick of butter. All the "Kobe Burgers" in the city that rarely live up to their name--this burger isn't Kobe or Wagyu, but it's how I'd imagine it'd taste.

The Western burger I ordered on my first visit (three strips of bacon, three rings of grilled green pepper and barbecue sauce) was fine enough. But pn my second visit, I got their basic half-pounder with just American cheese and caramelized onions, and this was entirely more satisfying. The cheese melted under the steam of the grilltop cover until it became a semi-translucent orange shellac. This was sandwiched between toasted sesame buns the size of CDs. (The fries ain't bad either. These guys are cut fresh and fried in beef tallow.)

This place is not about accouterments. Gorgonzola crumbles or a slather of aioli won't improve on it. The word "beef" appears in the marquee and on its menu multiple times for a reason: The patty plays center stage, and it's now among my favorite in the city.