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The Burger Joint

Sun., April 1, 2007

Neon sign for the Burger Joint.

Manhattan is filled with so-called secrets: secret parks, secret rooms, secret stations, secret menu items, countless “exclusive” clubs and bars with unmarked entrances and at least one ultradubious “Best Kept Secret”. There are some secrets I cannot reveal, lest I lose my budding New Yorker status. But, really, on an island of millions it’s tough to keep anything to yourself.

Case in point: the secret burger joint hidden at Le Parker Meridien hotel. When I read about it—and it’s gotten more press than any secret I’ve ever known—I imagined it would be the Starwood marketing department’s approximation of a greasy spoon, much as how any eating establishment (particularly in a mall or an airport) billed as “authentic” isn’t.

From the hotel’s lobby of polished marble, glass and mirrors, just past the registration desk on the far side of a giant tan curtain, there’s an unmarked dark, narrow hallway lit at the end by a small neon sign of a steaming burger and a red arrow pointing right. Follow it and it’s like Lucy through the wardrobe, only instead of a snow-dappled fairyland there’s a nasty diner. There may have even been a faun in there. It was very crowded and who’s to say; the Burger Joint is the size of an average Manhattan apartment and jam packed with lines: lines waiting to order, lines waiting to pick up orders and lines waiting to sit, with people needing to grab a straw or a ketchup packet from the counter cutting all over the place. I know, sounds charming, right? But the bustle of it is oddly exciting.

Above the counter, from which orders are taken and dispensed and behind which are the grills, deep fryer and a poor overworked blender for the milkshakes, hangs a grid of rough wooden shelves, wrapped with Christmas lights and laden with institutional-sized jugs of condiments and pickles, stacks of bagged hamburger buns and a mismatched collection of bobblehead dolls (Spider-Man, a hula girl, Archie, some Yankees player, a leprechaun). Two signs are affixed to the shelves, both written in Magic Marker on crudely cut pieces of brown corrugated cardboard. One, in a classic New York blend of courtesy and hostility, reads, “We don’t spit on your food so please. . . Don’t write on our walls.” (It’s unclear whether the sign went up before or after the far, white-painted brick wall got covered with Sharpied graffiti.) The other sign, twice as large, offers ordering instructions in neat block capitals, as curt and hassled as the counterstaff:

THE FASTEST WAY TO GET IT RIGHT

STEP 1: HAMBURGER -or- CHEESEBURGER

STEP 2: HOW D’YA WANT IT COOKED (RARE, MED. RARE, MEDIUM, MED. WELL, WELL)

STEP 3: WHAT D’YA WANT ON IT (LETTUCE, TOMATO, ONION, PICKLE, KETCHUP, MAYO, MUSTARD)
WITH EVERYTHING CALL IT “THE WORKS”

BE READY OR ELSE YOU GO TO THE END OF THE LINE

Cellophane-taped to the fake wood-paneled walls are random movie and TV show posters (Narc, Sex and the City). The ceiling is one of those hated acoustic drop-tile numbers. Greasy formica tables, only about 12 of them, line the perimeter, with a shared table and tall stools near the counter. Classic rock hums in the background and there was a phone forever ringing somewhere that no one ever answered.

It’s good they didn’t as it would only distract from the flame broiling. You couldn’t ask for a better burger: thick and juicy on a toasted bun, plenty of toppings, swaddled in waxed paper. You get the fries plunked on a plate or in a small brown paper bag that quickly spots with grease. The shakes are rich and sweet. Good stuff. The secret is not safe with me.

“The Burger Joint”

Tags: 52 Meals Project (2007) | Comments have been closed.