The Burger Bunch
Edited by Marina Crouse
It’s the kind of night where I remember I live in New England. My breath materializes in wispy streaks as I leave the car. I pull my mask up despite being outdoors then hastily shove my hands in my pockets. Today is winter, even though yesterday was 50 degrees. This is still, in fact, the northeast in January. Shoes make contact with the salt-caked pavement and a crisp echo travels down the street with each step. Our reflections become distorted as they pass through storefront windows. Like the first restaurant we tried tonight, the shops are dark and bear the laminated sign of disappointment. Some are specific in their reopening date, others tout the vague “next season.” This is still, in fact, Martha’s Vineyard in January.
Rounding the corner, we approach another door. The banter of patrons grows louder as Tee tentatively pulls the handle. My shoulders, tense from shivering, ease up a bit. Sliding into a booth, we’re soon joined by four friends eagerly passing around the menus. A quick survey of their expressions and I assume they share my disappointment in the evening plans shifting. I’d been talking the other place up all week. Some members of the group may have even debated going out tonight, almost opting for sweatpants and Yellowjackets.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had this burger for myself. I’ve taken bites of Ben’s.” Bry begins, prompting a conversation about our favorite peak-season haunts, now mostly in hibernation.
“There used to be a burger place. It was only open, like, one summer.” Hannah, the only non-washashore of the group, recalls. “Across from Flying Horses, I went with my mom. I had a garlic blue cheese burger and she had a peanut butter bacon burger. I’ve spent my entire life trying to chase down that burger. It was so good.”
Once the drinks and food arrive, the night’s order of business is addressed; the group starts to shed its collective muzziness.
“Kate’s rolling up her sleeves. That’s smart.”
“You have to! Look at this burger, it’s massive!” Kate replies, then gingerly picks up the smash burger. “This is the kind you have to go to the bathroom and wash your hands after!”
Hannah and Ben give a quizzical look while the rest of us cackle. Bry elaborates.
“Earlier at work we were talking about burgers. Kate goes: ‘my favorite burger is the kind where you have to run to the bathroom after you eat it.’”
“And I was like, ‘that’s called food poisoning.’” Tee adds.
“So Kate says, ‘No! To wash your hands because it was so messy and good!’ And we’re like, ‘don’t say it like that next time!’”
We turn to our identical plates. Six smash burgers, one of them an impossible smash because I was curious. It was technically the inaugural night of our “Burger Bunch,” an attempt to sample as many year-round burger options on the island as possible. But we’d actually been trying and discussing burgers long before the Instagrammable potential occurred to us. Determining what makes the perfect burger was already part of our offseason plans, so Tee pitched a more organized, content-worthy approach to this pastime.
“I’m not on the smash burger bandwagon yet.” Tee begins, taking a sip of her cider. “With the smash burger they’re cooked well done, they’re really cheesy. I want, like, a medium burger balanced with other toppings.” She takes a bite, then continues, “Again, I’m open to the right smashburger making me a converter.”
“I’m all about the sauces and the flavors that come into it.” Hannah chimes in, “If the flavors that you’ve added are good, I don’t care about the actual quality of the meat itself.”
“I like really rare burgers. I don’t care about buns at all.” Bry admits, sparking six diverse manifestos on the bun. Potato is clutch. Brioche is exceptionally fluffy. Brioche is too slippery. Pretzel is sinful. Pretzel is divine. Toasted is ideal. The bun should not interfere with the burger. Our only consensus: regardless of the composition, the bun should not be so large that one must “unhinge the jaw” in order to consume it. Yet the debate doesn’t turn malicious, and no one attempts to assert their preferences as the Truth.
“That is a consideration. Height of the burger, overall size of the burger,” Ben agrees, typing something in his phone.
“We did burgers with corn tortillas.” Bry recalls.
“It was terrible.” Ben responds, causing Bry to pause.
“Really? You ate it real quick.”
“There’s a place that does a double cheeseburger chimichanga.” Hannah offers.
“That’s your running to the bathroom burger right there.”
As we wrap up our meal, Ben presents a chart he’s created. He’s laid out our burger evaluation into four sections: meat, toppings, bun, sides. During each of these burger nights, perhaps twice a month or more, we’ll rate the burgers individually. We’re to assign a letter grade to each category, then average them for a final score and engage in a lively discussion.
“Oh! One of our burger nights can be cooking burgers!” Kate suggests.
“Is that too much to take on?” I wonder.
“Listen,” Bry chuckles, “winter’s a slow time of year here. We have time.”
