Hamburger America (25 page)

Over 50 years have passed and the burger recipe remains unchanged. The burger is griddled and closely monitored (much like a science project), delicately flipped, then pinpricked to prevent it from exploding. As it nears doneness, it resembles a large clam wobbling on the griddle.

The delivery of the burger to your table always comes with a warning. Bartender of 18 years Margaret Lidstone said to me sternly, “You will burn your mouth off if you bite into it too soon. Let it sit.” The phrase FEAR THE CHEESE printed on the waitstaff’s shirts was warning enough. I tried to wait, but became a victim instantly. The molten goo was HOT, really hot, and kept the burger moist all the way through. Everyone who ordered the Jucy Lucy got the same stern speech. “I know,” a regular responded, “not my first time.” A woman sitting at the next table had no problem saying to me, “You’re doing it all wrong. Just nibble at it, take small bites while it cools down.”

The Jucy Lucy comes on waxed paper—
no plate, no utensils. Onions, fried or raw, are optional and pickles are standard. No tomato, no lettuce. Coke? Sure, no ice. Diet Coke? No lemon. Matt’s is bare-bones dining at its very best.

The griddle is positioned behind the bar in full view. The grill cook told me, “We can sell up to 500 on a good day.” The staff, and whoever is available, spend hours a day pinching and stuffing Jucy Lucys. “It’s endless,” said Margaret, and opened a low bar fridge to reveal hundreds of prebuilt Jucys ready for their turn on the grill that day.

The only menu is the one on the wall behind the bar and it has not changed in over five decades (with the exception of the prices, of course). It’s on this menu that the “Jucy Lucy” is misspelled. “I think it was a mistake that just stuck,” Margaret told me.

Matt Bristol worked at the bar, then named Mr. Nibb’s, before purchasing the quiet corner tavern in 1954 and changing the name to his own. Scott Nelson bought the bar from Matt’s daughter in 1998 and changed nothing. Even the crazy ’50s wallpaper (which can be viewed on the tavern’s website) remains. “It’s quite tacky, actually,” Scott explained, “but people don’t want change.” In a time when so many restaurants, and even bars, all look the same from city to city because of franchising, Scott believes that there is a place for Matt’s. “Everything looks like a chain. We don’t.”

Matt’s commitment to hamburgers starts with a concept that has its roots in the 1950s, and the simple menu is a testament to the fact that great burgers are immune to fads. Scott said it best when he pointed out, “Burgers and fries don’t go out of style, and neither do we.”

 

 

“5
-8” was the address for this former speakeasy in south Minneapolis on the corner of 58th and Cedar Avenue. In 1928 when it opened illegally, it was a small stucco house out in the country where the owners had constructed a secret underground garage to make smuggling booze easier.

Today the 5-8 is a crossroads restaurant that is no longer rural. The dirt road that ran beside the building is now a highway, and the end of the runway for the Twin Cities airport is only half a mile away. It is not uncommon to get a close-up view of the belly of a Northwest jumbo jet as you walk from your car to the restaurant.

The 5-8 is home to the “Juicy Lucy,” the same cheese-stuffed burger concoction made famous by Matt’s just up Cedar Avenue, though Matt’s spells theirs “Jucy Lucy.” Regulars and waitstaff were reluctant to talk about the origins
of south Minneapolis’ favorite burger. “Oh, I don’t know,” said one regular, “they both make pretty good Lucys.” The only person willing to talk was the kitchen manager at the time, coincidentally named Matt. He was still pretty vague saying, “It’s always been a thing between here and Matt’s on who invented it.”

Regardless, the 5-8 makes a great “upscale” Juicy Lucy, because there’s a twist to the recipe—you can order one stuffed with classic American cheese, Swiss, pepper Jack, or blue cheese. Matt told me, “People love them—we sell tons.” As a burger hits the grill, it is marked with a colored fuzzy-tipped sandwich toothpick to identify its corresponding molten cheese core. Yellow for Swiss, blue for blue cheese . . . you get the idea. Has Matt ever gotten them mixed up? “Never.” That’s pretty impressive for cranking out over 300 Juicy Lucys a day for the large sit-down lunch and dinner crowd. All of the Juicy Lucys are made from fresh-ground Angus chuck. Two large patties are pinched together and stuffed in-house daily. The buns seem too large to fit in your mouth but are superlight, locally made, and fresh.

In a nod to Matt’s Bar’s T-shirts (which ask you to “Fear the Cheese”) the 5-8 sells tees that ask you to “Free the Cheese.” It’s recommended that you wait to eat your burger after it shows up in the basket at your table. The hot cheese interior will burn your mouth if you are impatient. I made the mistake of cutting mine in half to let it cool; I was left with a cheese-goo mess.

Don’t do what I did and enter the 5-8 through the welcoming front door, complete with a lawn, low hedges, and a flag. True to its speakeasy heritage, the back door is the way to enter. And don’t be put off by its clinical looking rear entrance—behind the door is a comfortable dining room with a large outdoor patio.

The 5-8 may be known for its burgers but don’t miss out on its long list of comfort food like jojo potatoes, pork tenderloin sandwiches, and the Midwest’s own fried cheese curds. And if you order a drink with that, the 5-8 guarantees “free refills ‘till you float.” I don’t think this applies to beer, though.

 

 

T
he drive to Amory is quintessential backcountry Deep South—miles of two-lane roads lined with cotton fields, cotton gins, and, when I visited, lots of loose cotton all over the road. Amory is a small town and Bill’s is a small restaurant at a spot where Main Street bends. Locals affectionately refer to this spot as “Vinegar Bend.”

Bill’s has twenty-three stools and about two tables, so chances are you’ll probably be sitting at the counter. Nothing fancy here—in keeping with tradition, burgers are still served at your spot at the counter on waxed paper.

Before it was Bill’s, it was Bob’s. In 1929 Bob Hill borrowed $48 from a local baker named James Toney to open a hamburger restaurant. A stipulation of the deal was that Bob had to buy all of his hamburger buns from Toney’s bakery.

One year after opening, Bob hired Bill Tubb to help slice and prep buns with the only two condiments available in the ’20s at Bob’s—mustard and onion. World War II meat rationing forced Bob’s to close, but after the war Bob reopened and later sold the business to Bill in 1955. Naturally, Bill changed the name to his
own, then turned around and sold it in 1957 to another Bill, who then rehired Bill to work there. After a string of Bill’s relatives owned and operated the small burger stand, Bill’s was sold to the current owners, Reid and Janice Wilkerson.

“I grew up eating here. It was such a big part of my childhood. When it came up for sale, I had to buy it,” Reid told me as he emerged from the back room of the restaurant. He grinds fresh beef there every day for the burgers as it has been done since 1929. Another tradition Reid and Janice adhere to—mustard and onion only—also dates back to the beginning. “Not much has changed here, except that the burgers got bigger,” grill girl Amy told me. Toney’s bakery closed in 1970, which led Bill’s to start using standard four-inch buns. The new burger size was determined by the size of the buns.

The burgers start as quarter-pound balls of beef that are pressed onto a well-seasoned flattop griddle. The burgers at Bill’s are unbelievably tasty, beefy, and rich with grease flavor. The mustard, onion, beef, and bun combination is heaven. Cheese is unnecessary, though available, but tomato and lettuce are nowhere to be found. If you really need ketchup or mayo, Amy hides packets behind the counter. “They’re really only for takeout orders.”

Ever had a burger for breakfast? Bill’s opens at 7:30 most mornings and does not serve eggs or bacon. “We serve burgers all day. People do come in here first thing and order burgers, especially the third shift at the local factories,” Amy told me as I polished off my double.

On the front of the restaurant is a large painted portrait of the beloved former employee Junior Manasco, a gently disabled fixture at Bill’s for over 20 years starting in 1977. On a wall opposite the counter is a framed resolution from the State of Mississippi presented to Junior “for his service to his community.” Reid recalled, “He knew and greeted everyone that came in the door.”

As I was leaving an old-timer at the counter told me, “The first time I came here the burgers were 25 cents.” When I pressed for just how long ago that was he said, “A long time ago.”

 

 

D
owntown Holly Springs, Mississippi, looks like it may have looked 70 years ago. American flags and freshly painted turn-of-the-century storefronts line the streets. Phillip’s Grocery is not here though. Phillip’s is down the road by the train tracks across from a semi-restored 150-year-old ornate train depot, and the area looks a lot like William Eggleston’s photography of the South—gritty and real. I got lost trying to find this burger destination, and you will too.

Phillips serves one of the best burgers in America. Not just because I said so; their burgers have been the subject of many journalistic accolades, including being awarded, “Best Burger In America” twice by
USA Today
.

The restaurant was first established as Phillips Grocery in 1948 when the Phillips family bought an existing grocery that sold hamburgers. Current owner Larry Davis told me, “The burger’s been made here since the ’30s.” Mrs. Phillips had planned to do away with the burger when they bought the store, but changed her tune when she saw how many they were selling. “She put her kids through college with burger money.”