Hamburger America (13 page)

Charlie Beinlich’s future looks strong even though John joked, “When I die, Linda’s selling the place!” Linda and Tom have two girls and no intention to sell. Linda told me, “We hope they’ll want to take over the business.” Their future husbands may get to own Beinlich’s too, the old fashioned way.

 

 

W
hen the first version of this book came out I started getting e-mails from fans that were driving around the country trying to visit all the burger joints in the book. One of those fans was Larry Hodek from just outside of Chicago who was eating his way across America. In a long, handwritten letter to me he voiced his concern that I didn’t include his hometown favorite. I have to admit, the burger joint he was talking about was not even on my radar. It was so far south of downtown Chicago that everyone I had asked had never heard of the place. But it doesn’t take much for me to try a new burger so thank you, Larry, for leading me to this classic gem.

First you’ll see the sign. The absurdly oversized sign dwarfs the façade of the building and can be seen from blocks away. Across the street is a Burger King and owner Karen McCormick told me, “It has been there for 30 years and has not affected our business.”

The interior is a mix of 50 years of decorating style with faux-Tiffany stained glass pendant lamps overhead, bent wood café chairs, and green checked floor tile. Green topped swivel stools line a green Formica counter and the walls are wood
paneled trimmed with, you guessed it, green.

Karen, wearing peace symbol earrings, is a feisty piece of work. She has a few employees that make change and such but Karen is a powerhouse and seems to fill all of the orders that come in. “I do it all, baby,” she told me as she jumped from fryer to griddle. She bought Grant’s Wonderburger in 1988 from her father-in-law, Bill Grant, who was looking to retire. Bill opened the restaurant in 1958 after working at the long-gone Superburger on Stoney Island Avenue, another Southside favorite. Bill wanted to emulate the burger that he knew so well and with Superburger’s blessing opened his own burger joint and changed the name slightly. (The owner, Moose Bowen, even came over to flip the first Wonderburger and Bill was on his way.) The restaurant moved three times, all within a block or two, with the last move in 1969 to a location directly across the street. Karen told me that Bill and a few employees even dragged the counter across the street late one night.

Grant’s burgers come to the restaurant as fresh, pre-formed patties five to the pound. They are thin and wide and cook very fast on the seasoned flattop griddle. The burger to get is the “Double Wonderburger Basket,” which comes with American cheese, grilled or sliced onion, shredded lettuce, and the super-secret Wonder Sauce. The burger is presented on a toasted white squishy, wrapped in waxed paper, and served in a green basket full of their famous curly-q fries. I asked Karen what was in the Wonder Sauce and she replied quickly, “It’s a secret.” I can tell you, though, that it was great, and was basically a tangy, sweet, red relish.

The fries are a big draw at Grant’s Wonderburger. On some days Karen can go through a few hundred pounds of potatoes to make the curly-q fries. When an order comes in, she grabs a handful of fresh-cut ribbons of potatoes from a bin and tosses them into the deep fryer. I swear I pulled a curled fry out of my basket that when stretched out was no less than a foot long. I also noticed (too late) that the curly-q fries can be ordered with melted cheddar. Could there be a better side dish?

As you scarf down your Wonderburger, take a look at the walls around you. Then take a look at the full name of the restaurant. The menu and enormous sign out front bill the place as GRANT’S GRILL & GALLERY. The gallery that
covers the walls features local artists and their Chicago-centric subjects. The art is for sale and ranges from rudimentary to the bizarre. One strange phantasmagorical painting depicts a woodland scene with fully uniformed hockey players (Chicago Blackhawks?) hitting the puck around a frozen creek. In the distance is a Native American standing on the ice in traditional feathered garb watching, possibly looking to join in. “I think Bill did it just to cover the walls for free,” Karen told me. “Some of it is good, some weird.”

Make your way down to the far south side neighborhood of Mt. Greenwood and look for the oversized Wonderburger sign. Get a classic burger with a “secret” sauce and bite into a piece of Chicago history that few in Chicago have actually heard about. You will come away with a better appreciation of old Chicago, and maybe some art too.

 

 

B
efore there were suburbs, there was Hackney’s. “There was nothing out here in the beginning,” third generation owner Mary Welch told me. Hackney’s sits way back from Harms Road on a lush, tree-filled piece of property. Across the street is a large forest preserve. It still sort of feels like the middle of nowhere, but drive a few hundred feet in either direction and you’ll find yourself in the center of Chicago’s suburban sprawl.

The history of Hackney’s is so complicated that Mary actually drew a chart for me on the back of a paper placemat. Here is the abridged version. In the ’20s, Helen and Jack Hackney converted the back patio of their home into an illegal prohibition-era bar that served burgers. “It was so deserted out here that they thought they’d make money on booze,” Mary explained. Eventually, the Hackneys moved the business from their backyard to a barn-like structure opposite the house. “We’re not really sure what it was,” Mary told me. “Maybe a chicken coop or a barn.” In 1939, Mary’s father, Jim Masterson, who was Helen’s nephew, and her mother, Kitz, purchased Hackney’s for $1 and endured the slow war years with business being fueled by soldiers from a World War II POW camp in the forest preserve across the street. When the war ended, the suburbs exploded and Hackney’s was suddenly surrounded by hungry families. “There were mostly German bars here then,” Mary explained, “and this was the first real family place.” It was a mixed blessing, however. Thanks to new residential zoning after the war Hackney’s was not able to expand the restaurant on the property. In 1955, Jim and Kitz were turning away 100 people a day. Their solution? They opened a second Hackney’s just down the street.

When the Mastersons assumed ownership of Hackney’s they introduced a burger to the menu that remains today—the “Hackneyburger.” This North Suburbs classic is unique to the burger world because, since day one, it has been served on dark rye. And not just any dark rye, homemade dark rye prepared daily in Hackney’s own bakery. “Originally, my parents made the bread at home,” Mary told me, in the house that sits just opposite the restaurant. The bread is soft and sweet, not what you’d expect from dark bread. In fact, it’s so soft that it has a tendency to disintegrate quickly thanks to the juicy eight-ounce burger that it cradles.

The Hackneyburger

 

The Hackneyburger comes unadorned, with lettuce and tomato on the side. Onions are available, and if you ask for them grilled, you’ll get an entire onion’s-worth on the side. Cheese choices are American, Swiss, and cheddar. The half-pound burger, kept thick, is cooked on a flattop griddle and can be prepared to the temperature of your choice. Hackney’s used to buy ground beef from a local butcher and Mary’s parents would hand-patty the burgers daily using a coffee cup as a mold. They eventually purchased a patty machine, and one day gave the patty machine to their butcher. That butcher, who has been supplying Hackney’s since the beginning, is now the sole provider of hamburger patties to the six Hackney’s locations in the Chicago area. “That’s all he does for a living, makes burgers for all the Hackney’s,” Mary told me.

No visit to Hackney’s would be complete without trying one of their signature sides, the french fried onions. It arrives as a deep-fried brick of thin-sliced onions fused with fried batter standing tall at about 7 inches. It’s an impressive presentation and was invented by a cook at Hackney’s in 1962. In an effort to placate a customer who had missed out on the perch one fish fry Friday, a cook named Carmen tossed a handful of battered onions into the deep fryer and invented a new side dish. The concoction emerged whole, in the shape of the fryer basket, and to this day is still served as a block of deep-fried goodness on a plate.

Not surprisingly, Hackney’s has a great selection of German beers on tap and a solid bar lined with substantial leather-topped stools. The bar is carpeted, quiet and dark, even on bright, sunny days. I could see myself passing many hours there. The small dining room is also clean, dark, and cozy and a young, cute server told me, “It kind of reminds me of a cozy Wisconsin bar.” Me too, but Hackney’s is even cozier than what I’ve seen in Wisconsin. Across the parking lot, behind the original house, Hackney’s also operates a patio that seats 200 in the warm months.

“It hasn’t really changed since my parents were here,” Mary told me, which is a good thing because everything seems to work just fine. Mary is one of seven children, all of whom are partners in the business and separately manage the six Hackney’s in the area. Mary has the shortest commute though, a short walk across the parking lot from the family home she grew up in. “I’m not complaining,” she told me with a smile.