Hamburger America (33 page)

The Béarnaise Burger

 

The meat for the burgers comes from cattle that are handpicked for P.J.’s. They grind chuck steaks in the kitchen and the fat-to-lean ratio is kept secret. The eight-ounce burgers are hand-pressed one by one, cooked on a flattop griddle, and served on a classic white squishy bun. Don’t be surprised to find a slice of onion underneath your burger. Today’s burgers are served on a porcelain plate, but Patrick told me, “They used to be served on paper plates and the onion was there to soak up the juices”—presumably to prevent the plate from falling apart.

I’ve been going to P.J.’s for decades and the burger has always been perfect. The bun-to-beef ratio, the slight griddle crunch, and the moist, meaty flavor are what burger dreams are made of. There are a few burger choices at P.J.’s, but I always get the “Béarnaise Burger.” Imagine the simplicity of the elements—the perfect burger, a soft white bun, and a healthy dose of pure béarnaise sauce.

The dark dining room walls are covered with an amazing collection of New York City ephemera (including P.J.’s death certificate) and old photographs of past patrons. The 100-year-old men’s urinals are as famous as the burgers and must be seen to be believed (they’re over five feet tall with thick porcelain embellishment). Sinatra once said they were “big enough to take a bath in.”

P.J.’s has been part of the collective unconscious of literally millions of former and present New Yorkers. Just like your favorite jacket or an old pair of shoes, the tavern has always been a familiar, unchanging place that many rely on for hearty comfort food, a drink, and good company. The burger at P.J.’s is part of that legacy of comfort and hopefully will be forever.

 

 

R
acing to catch a flight I was sure to miss out on Raleigh, North Carolina’s own burger mini-chain, the Char-Grill. Fortunately, I did stop, but would have missed the flight had the service not been super-fast.

The set up is pure 1950s drive-in, but the ordering process is peculiar. No honking for service here. You park your car, walk up to the window, and fill out a cryptic order form. Once you have marked your choices, you shove the slim piece of paper into a thin slot in one of the large plate glass windows. Your order form slides down a stainless chute to the waiting grill cook. The lack of indoor seating and a glass-enclosed kitchen creates a sort of public hamburger laboratory—as you wait, you can peer inside and watch your burger being constructed according to the condiments you checked off on your order. Within minutes, your number is called and you are rewarded with a white paper bag full of hot food by a smiling employee.

The burgers are grilled over a flame and come in three sizes, the largest being the half-pound hamburger steak sandwich. Any combination of mayo, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, cheese, and bacon can be created. The staff all wear white paper caps and aprons and work at stations to keep this model of efficiency chugging along. The beef comes in fresh daily, as square preformed Angus chuck patties. The manager at the original Hillsborough stand, Scott Hobby, told me “All of the lettuce, tomato, and onion come from a local farmer’s market.”

Bruce Garner opened Char-Grill in 1959. In 1975, two fraternity brothers, Mahlon Aycock and Ryon Wilder, assumed ownership and over three decades later are still partners in the business. They have expanded from the one location they purchased in 1975 to five locations with more planned. All of the locations are in the Raleigh-Durham area but Mahlon plans to expand throughout North Carolina—and as he put it, “probably beyond.”

By design, not much has changed at Char-Grill. The Hillsborough location is a piece of American architecture stuck in time. The deliberately oversized, overdesigned structure is almost sculpture—the enormous white wavy roof looks as if it could crush the floor-to-ceiling windows supporting it. The other Raleigh locations also serve their well-known Charburgers, but it’s the original location that has that great drive-in feel. And for over 50 years Char-Grill has continued to serve the same tasty, flame-grilled burgers and creamy shakes.

All walks of life visit Char-Grill for a dose of nostalgia. Mahlon told me, “We get everybody from the governor of North Carolina to construction folk and anybody in between.” And me. I’ll be back. I hope my flight gets delayed.

 

 

W
hen the doors open at 11 a.m. at the Penguin, people pour in. On most days, especially weekends, the seats are filled within 30 seconds and stay that way through lunch with a wait for a table before noon not uncommon.

The first time I visited, I sat at the bar and watched as longtime manager Rhyne Franklin unlocked the front door for lunch. At the same time the door swung open, a tattooed server named B-Mac flicked on the jukebox and out came the punk classic, “Sonic Reducer,” at a decent volume. The Penguin went from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds and the first customer through the door was a gray-haired woman with a cane in a powder-blue suit. She was followed by a couple of guys with ties and a handful of other younger locals. I was shocked by the varied demographic and Rhyne just shrugged and said, “That’s lunch.” Everyone is welcome at the Penguin.

The Penguin opened in the early 1950s, first as an ice cream stand and then in 1954 as a drive-in with carhops, burgers, and fries. The neighborhood went into decline in the 1970s and the Penguin became a biker bar. “It was a complete hole in the wall,” Rhyne told me. In 2000, two friends, Brian Rowe and Jimmy King, bought the business from Jim Ballentine and spent months renovating the place. Ballentine retained the rights to the Penguin name and ownership of the property. Brian and Jimmy kept the overall integrity of the place intact and brought in chef Greg Auten to help them develop straightforward fare for the revamped menu. When they opened, the Penguin was reborn in a neighborhood that was on the rebound. The timing was perfect.

The burgers come in three basic sizes at the Penguin, the “Small Block,” the “Big Block,” and the “Full Blown Hemi.” The names are probably a nod to NASCAR since the Charlotte area is where most of the race teams call home. The Small Block is a one-third-pound burger, the Big Block two one-third-pound patties, and the Hemi is a ridiculous three stacked one-third-pound patties. “Most people get the Small Block,” Rhyne told me, and for good reason—it’s a totally satisfying burger, and just the right size, especially if you plan on indulging in the Penguin’s famous fried pickles. The Big Block uses the same sized bun, but the contents tend to slip and slide. The Full Blown Hemi is just a colossal mess, but a damned tasty one. “A lot of people ask for a knife and fork for the Hemi,” Rhyne laughed, and B-Mac pointed out, “We really only sell one or two Hemis a day.”

How do you want your burger? At the Penguin, the options are “all the way” (lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo, and pickles) or “Southern Style” (chili, mustard, onions, and cole slaw). Southern Style is the way to go because you can get lettuce and tomato anywhere. The chili that the Penguin uses is made in-house and is simple, beefy, and spicy. The coleslaw is also made at the Penguin and is shredded impossibly thin. You can get American cheese on your burger but the pimento cheese at the Penguin is incredible.

The Big Block with pimento cheese

 

The burgers are cooked on a flattop and start as portioned wads of fresh ground chuck. The grillperson takes a wad, tosses it onto the griddle, and presses it into the shape of a burger. They are obviously not over-pressed because the resulting burger is very juicy.

The entire staff is young, energetic, and mostly tattooed. The tone at the Penguin was set by Jimmy and Brian, both ex-military, and both tattoo-covered themselves. Jimmy is a big fan of punk music and the jukebox reflects this. At first glance you’ll see a bunch of Elvis and Johnny Cash in there, but check out the black folder to the left of the juke. It’s loaded with hundreds of punk and hard rock tunes.

At the time of this publication, the Ballentine Family had no plans to renew Jimmy and Brian’s lease, effectively pushing out the two guys that saved an icon and turned the Penguin into a destination burger joint. There’s no guarantee that the soul of the Penguin will remain, but when your restaurant fills up within 30 seconds of opening your doors, you’d be a fool to change anything.