Hamburger America (32 page)

 

 

D
ensely packed suburban Long Island, New York, is a place where new malls and homes are constantly springing up and, unless protected, the past is unceremoniously swept away. In a part of the country where it’s getting harder to find genuine nostalgia, locals embrace Hildebrandt’s Luncheonette. This early-twentieth-century landmark soda counter, confectionery, and ice cream parlor offers a glimpse into the past. The counter, though, is not a washed-up has-been. It’s as vibrant as ever and happens to serve some of the tastiest burgers this side of Manhattan.

Hildebrandt’s opened in 1927 and was the only business in the newly developing dirt road suburb of Williston Park, 20 miles from New York City. Today, Hildebrandt’s is owned by Joanne Strano and her son-in-law, Bryan Acosta. Joanne and her late husband, Al, bought the vintage luncheonette in 1974 when longtime owner and chocolate maker Henry Shreiver was looking to retire. The Acostas learned the chocolate-making trade from Shreiver and made a major improvement to the existing burger on the menu—fresh ground beef.

This classic luncheonette, with its checkertiled floor and long marble counter with 13 stools, maintains a vintage look by making use of the soda fountain trappings of a bygone era. The seltzer and syrup dispensers are not vintage props. They all function daily, as does the long bank of ice cream chests behind the counter. Ice cream is a big draw at Hildebrandt’s because it’s made right at the restaurant.

But according to Bryan, most come for the food, which is a mix of classic diner fare and Italian specialties added by the Acosta family in the 1970s. Surprisingly, this amazing burger has been exiled to the bottom of the menu. Look for your cheeseburger in a section marked “sandwiches” at the bottom of the list, just after the meatball hero.

“We have the greatest burger,” Bryan told me without pause, and added, “I’ve never really had a better burger. I really haven’t.” He can boast all he wants. It really is a great burger. The burgers at Hildebrandt’s start as fresh-ground sirloin the restaurant receives from the butcher down the street. Bryan himself hand-patties the four-ounce burgers just before the lunch crowd shows up. The burgers are offered at the four-ounce size, or ask for the eight-ounce and get twice the meat. “We just take two four-ounce patties and smoosh them together on the grill,” Bryan explained. On the flattop griddle, Alfredo presses the burger flat and places a bacon weight on top. It’s served on a classic white bun with tomato, sliced onion, and a wedge of iceberg lettuce. Bacon is available, but not necessary (this meat is so good you won’t want anything to hide the flavor). Ketchup is king at Hildebrandt’s (there’s a bottle every few feet on the counter) but mustard has to be culled from the countermen in small pouches.

Hildebrandt’s fries are a great addition to your hamburger lunch. They are large, hand-cut, deep-fried slices of potato that, if ordered well done, resemble homemade potato chips. Order a milkshake, listed on the menu in Long Island vernacular as a “frosted,” and you’ll get a tall glass and the obligatory metal cup the shake was made in. Since the ice cream is homemade, the shakes are superb.

The clientele at Hildebrandt’s ranges from little old ladies to large families with kids. Bryan, waiting tables in the back, makes jokes as he takes orders. “These are the best seats in the house,” he tells two older ladies looking for a table, “unless of course I’m waiting on you!”

In the vicinity of New York City, Hildebrandt’s is not alone. The long-gone business model for this type of soda fountain survives at places like Hinsch’s in Bayridge, Brooklyn, and Bischoff’s in Teaneck, New Jersey. They too make their own chocolates, and in the case of Bischoff’s, countermen still wear white paper caps and striped shirts. At all of these vintage soda fountains of German descent, you can take home hand-packed ice cream by the pint or quart, but the similarities end there. Only Hildebrandt’s makes a top-quality burger. That, and the mocha frosted, will keep me coming back.

 

 

T
he Upper East Side of Manhattan is known more for its high cost of living and less for good old places like JG Melon. The humble, dark, no-nonsense tavern should have been in the first edition of this book, and was prevented only by scheduling conflicts. When Mayor Mike Bloomberg saw my book, he told me, “JG should be in here. They make a great burger.” He should know. The mayor lives only a few blocks away and is crazy about hamburgers.

Jack O’Neil and George Mourges (the
J
and
G
of JG Melon) were working at midtown restaurant Joe Allen when they decided they wanted to open a place of their own. In 1972 they leased Bar Central on 74th and 3rd and changed the name to JG Melon. The building dates back to the 1920s when the tavern was built by a local brewery to dispense its own products following Prohibition. Almost immediately, JG Melon became a watering hole for socialites and politicians, as well as locals and Wall Street types. Every sitting mayor for the last 40 years has felt comfortable at the tavern and the burger is at the center of it all.

Today, JG Melon retains its friendly broken-in pub ambiance thanks to the dapper Shaun Young, who plays the role of the New York City tavern proprietor perfectly. His clean-cut presence clearly sets the tone here and has done so
for decades. After a stint as a bartender in the early 1980s at JG Melon, Shaun became a partner. “Jack and George made me the manager, and after 6 months I was ready to leave,” he told me. They offered him a partnership and 30 years later he’s still there. George passed away in 2003, leaving Jack and Shaun as partners.

I asked Shaun what kind of meat he used for the burgers and without missing a beat he shot back, “It’s a secret,” and looked away. JG Melon’s burgers start as a special blend of cuts ground by the same butcher they’ve used for years. He added, “What I can tell you, though it’s not really a secret, is that we have a hot grill, very hot.” The burgers are portioned into 7-ounce balls then gently flattened on a large griddle, and Shaun pointed out, “Like a steak, we only flip them once.”

A cheeseburger and a Bloody Bull

 

The result is a substantially thick two-fister whose construction is perfect. No crazy toppings here, just a basic, beefy, uncomplicated burger that is truly satisfying. Because of the high heat and the steak-treatment, the exterior of the burger is seared to a serious griddle char that helps retain all of the moisture. You’ll need a napkin—this one is juicy.

Equally famous at JG Melon are the cottage fries that have been on the menu since the beginning. At one point, Shaun convinced Jack and George to switch to shoestring fries. “There was a complete revolt!” Shaun remembers. “We had to switch back immediately.”

Do not leave JG Melon without having a Bloody Bull. A drink you don’t see often that hails from New Orleans, the Bloody Bull is like a Bloody Mary but half of the tomato juice is replaced with beef broth. What could go better with a beefy burger than a beefy drink?

There are a few tables in a rear dining room and 16 coveted seats on the sidewalk, but grab a stool at the bar if possible and listen to the burgers sear on the flattop adjacent to the bar. The sound is heavenly.

Shaun is a true New Yorker, having grown up only a few blocks away, and he knows that JG Melon’s success is no mistake. “Why fix something that’s not broken?” he asked me. He also pointed to Jack and George for the reason that simplicity and quality trump all. “I give them credit for staying on top of the product.” And that’s why people keep coming back.

 

 

T
here are few taverns in America as steeped in history as P.J. Clarke’s. All at once a neighborhood bar, broken-in dive, and a celebrity hang for decades, it’s also a great place to find high-quality pub fare. Among that fare is the world famous P.J. Clarke’s hamburger. P.J.’s has not been affected by its own celebrity status. It remains a comfortable place in the heart of a sometimes cold city—a friendly pub with a welcoming staff and a remarkably unpretentious hamburger on the menu.

The iconic corner saloon, in a two-story brick tenement-style structure, looks totally out of place surrounded by the tall glass and steel office buildings of midtown Manhattan. Irish immigrant Patrick J. Clarke started working at the corner bar in 1902, and in 1912 he purchased the business and changed the name to his own.

Before the skyscrapers, the neighborhood surrounding P.J.’s was mostly breweries and slaughterhouses. And those who are old enough will remember that the Third Avenue subway was elevated, giving the area a radically different feel. By 1960, the elevated tracks were down and the slaughterhouses were long gone. P.J.’s neighborhood has undergone a profound transformation in the last century but the tiny saloon remains, dwarfed by its neighbors.

The tin ceilings, faded mirrors behind the bar, and stained-glass windows in front remind the casual observer of the saloon’s rich past. Sinatra made P.J.’s his last stop on nights out and even had his own table (#20). Affable young general manager Patrick Walsh told me, through his Irish brogue, “If there was anyone sitting there when Sinatra came in they’d get the boot.” Buddy Holly proposed to his wife here and Nat King Cole once called the hamburger at P.J.’s “the Cadillac of burgers.” Even the famed 1970s sports painter LeRoy Neiman put brush to canvas to create a portrait of the bar in full swing that proudly hangs in the dining room. There are many more stories, but you have to ask Patrick. He told me, “Every single day I learn a new story.”