Hamburger America (43 page)

When Robert’s opened in 1926, it was called Bob’s White Rock. The front door was on the Route 66 side only steps from a trolley stop. Edward told me, “People could get off the trolley here, get burgers at the window, and jump back on again. The grill used to be in the front window.” Edward started working at Robert’s in 1979 and purchased the counter in 1989.

For locals, there is an abundance of great onion-fried burger options in El Reno. When I asked a regular named Troy at the counter why he chose to patronize Robert’s, he seemed to fall back on brand loyalty. “I’ve been coming here for 50 years. I remember when they were eight for a dollar.” Now that’s a good customer.

 

 

“D
o you know what the definition of a diner is?” Marty Hall, part owner of this El Reno burger destination asked me. “It’s a place where the grill is in view and I can turn around and talk to the people.” And he does, making Sid’s one of the friendliest places I have ever set foot in. But it doesn’t stop there—Sid’s also makes one of the best onion-fried burgers anywhere.

Sid’s is named after Marty’s father, who passed away just before the restaurant opened in 1989. Marty had planned to work side by side with Sid, a retired highway employee. When he died, Sid’s brother, Bob, asked if he could take his spot. This sounds like a customary role for a family member to play, except that Bob left a six-figure job at Chevron in Houston to flip burgers. El Reno, Oklahoma, is famous for one thing—onion-fried burgers. Invented just across the street from Sid’s at the long-gone Hamburger Inn.

Bob and Marty Hall—truly dedicated burgermen

Sid’s is not alone in El Reno. At one point there were over nine onion-fried-burger joints within five blocks of downtown. Today, Sid’s, Johnnie’s, and Robert’s, the three remaining diners, are just a few hundred feet from one another.

If you choose a seat at the counter, you’ll have a great view of the construction of an onion-fried burger. Sid or Bob grab a ball of fresh-ground chuck from a beautiful pyramid of beef balls at the side of the griddle. Gobs of thinly sliced onions are piled onto the ball of beef on the large flattop griddle. The ball is pressed thin and the onions are worked into the soft meat. The burger is flipped, and after a few minutes, the caramelized onions have fused to the griddle-charred beef. Prepare your mouth for a taste explosion.

The burger is served on a white squishy bun with the meat and gnarled onions hanging out of it. Nothing is served with a regular burger except pickles (on the side) but you may find condiments unnecessary. If you require lettuce and tomato, ask for a Deluxe. Make yours a King Size and the meat and onions are doubled. The King is the most popular burger and makes for a perfect meal, especially if enjoyed with Sid’s excellent hand-cut, homemade fries. “I learned how to make fries down at J&W,” Marty told me, referring to another not-to-be-missed onion-fried burger further south in Chickasha.

One of the more unique features of Sid’s is their impressive decoupage countertop, sealed in poured resin. “The history of El Reno starts on that end,” Marty told me, pointing to the far left side of the counter. The patchwork of vintage El Reno photography includes everything from early shots of downtown to color photos of local baseball teams. “I wanted people who came in who weren’t from here to know something about my town.”

Even though Sid’s is technically a newcomer
to the onion-fried-burger phenomenon, Marty has been involved just about his entire life. “I used to work at Johnnie’s and my father helped out there as well.” Sid’s, he told me, was modeled after the old Johnnie’s.

Bob and Marty take turns flipping and pressing a lot of onions into their burgers. When the pyramid of beef balls next to the griddle gets low, a new, perfect pyramid miraculously appears. Every once in a while Marty will turn and dispense life lessons with a smile to anyone at the counter. “Be good to your daddy,” he says to some teenaged girls picking at their fries, “I should know. I have three daughters.”

 

 

I
receive e-mails daily telling me where to go (literally) and I love them all. Following the publication of the first edition of this book, an e-mail came in that said simply (in all caps), “LOVED YOUR BOOK. SOMEDAY I HOPE YOU CAN TRY HAMBURGER SLICKS IN MANGUM, OK. SLICKS IS THE BEST.” I think it was the all caps that got to me and I started planning a trip to western Oklahoma immediately.

Mangum, Oklahoma is not on the way to anything. It is a true destination deep in rural ranch and oil country and is a solid 35 miles south of I-40, hours from Oklahoma City. If you decide to venture off the interstate into the Oklahoma interior I guarantee that you will be rewarded with one of the greatest burgers in America.

Slick’s is located on the main artery in and out of the dusty city of Mangum. It’s hard to miss the tiny white shack with its red-and-white striped roof. There’s barely an identifying sign and no place to sit, just a little window with a sliding screen to place your order. When I arrived for the first time, grillperson Helen told me, “Come around back.” Inside I found a griddle and fry area adjacent to a small table with mismatched stools. What I assumed was a table for the kitchen staff turned out to be a table for regulars that prefer to eat in. It was equipped with a roll of paper towels and a tip jar. Imagine a chef ’s table at a hot restaurant where you can watch your favorite chef make magic. This is my kind of front-row seat, inches from a flattop griddle loaded with sizzling burgers.

The burgers at Slick’s are phenomenal and the choices somewhat confusing. You can order a regular hamburger or cheeseburger, which is around 3 ounces and comes on a toasted, white squishy bun. Or order the Giant, which adds twice as much meat and a larger bun. Anything can be doubled, and sure enough the most popular burger is the Giant Double Cheeseburger. From what I could tell, the Giant Double included 2 seven-ounce patties making this beast, after condiments, a one-pound burger.

A regular named Chris who has lunch at the kitchen table every Friday told me, “I usually get the regular double. Anything larger than that and I won’t be worth a damn back at work.” Undeterred, I polished off, with ease, the Giant Double with two slices of American, pickles, mustard, raw onion, lettuce, and tomato. How? Because it was so damned good.

The small flattop griddle is darkened with decades of seasoning. The burger at Slick’s starts with a ball of fresh ground beef, a special 73/27 chuck blend from the local supermarket down the street. Helen grabs a few balls from a nearby fridge, tosses them on the griddle, and presses them into the shape of a burger with a heavy spatula. A not-so-secret blend of salt and pepper is sprinkled on the patties and they are cooked over high heat until a decent crust forms. Large, soft buns warm on the griddle as the patties cook and they pick up some residual grease.

Like many of the places in this book the grillperson at Slick’s uses a non-traditional, custom-made
spatula. In this case, a sawed-off concrete trowel with a handle re-fashioned from molded fiberglass resin is the grill tool of choice at Slick’s. Owner Mike Avery told me, “I used a toilet paper tube for the mold and just held it in place until it set.”

Mike left 10 years in the oil exploration business to take over Slick’s from his dad in 2009 and as a third-generation owner understands his duty to the regulars. “Some people are here every day,” Mike told me. As I sat at the community table in the kitchen I noticed something slightly incongruous with the setting—an 8 x 10 glossy of 2007 Miss America Lauren Nelson signed over to “The gang at Slick’s.” “Oh, that’s my cousin,” Mike shared nonchalantly.

The tiny burger shack started as a Dairy Queen back in 1959 and was built and owned by Mike’s grandfather, Audry Mills Avery, and their uncle Slick Avery. Audry was a blind carpenter and built Slick’s from the ground up. When I asked Mike how this was possible he said with a smile, “You tell me.”

About a year after running the place, the relationship with Dairy Queen soured. “They were trying to tell Slick what to cook and wanted him to use frozen beef,” Mike’s younger brother, Joe, told me. Slick only wanted to use fresh ground beef, and as Joe put it, “They told him ‘You can’t do that,’ and Slick said, ‘The hell I can’t.’” And that was the end of that. Thankfully, 50 years later Slick’s continues to avoid the temptation to use frozen beef and will only serve quality food to a faithful clientele.