Hamburger America (49 page)

 

 

Z
arzour’s is one of the places I visited where I had wished this book wasn’t just about hamburgers. In addition to serving up one of the best burgers I’ve ever had, Zarzour’s also provides a meat-and-threes menu that the locals love. But even if burgers were the only draw, it’s worth a trip to this South Chattanooga food gem.

Until recently, Zarzour’s burgers were not even listed on the menu. Local lunch patron Blythe Bailey told me, “I came here a few times before I realized they even made burgers.” I asked Shannon Fuller, a Zarzours family member, grill chef, and master of ceremonies, why the burgers were not advertised. “Because I hate making them!” she said laughing hard, “Just kidding! But in the summertime it gets real hot in here because of the burgers.”

It couldn’t be a friendlier place. Everyone knows one another and some descendant of Zarzour is always in the restaurant either eating or working. “They come here to eat and I put every damn one of them to work—go
clear that table,” Shirley Fuller told me.

Shirley is the matriarch of the family, owner, and third-generation Zarzour. Her grandfather, Charles Zarzour, a Lebanese immigrant, opened the café in 1918. Shirley is in charge of the desserts for the three hours a day the restaurant is open. If a pie is running low, she’ll spot a regular with a favorite and tell them so.

The burgers are large. How large? Shannon made an air patty with her hands “about this big” and burst out laughing. “And the large burger is this big!”and she made a bigger air patty. Each burger is pattied to order. Shannon scoops ground chuck out of a Tupperware dish next to the grill, hand-forms a patty and places it on the small, flattop griddle in the front part of the restaurant, surrounded by customers. No burger is the same, though she gets pretty close. If you ask for grilled onion, a thick slice is cooked like a burger patty on the griddle. A cheeseburger with everything comes with pickles, lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo, and mustard on a bun that comes from a bakery across the street.

From the outside, Zarzour’s doesn’t look like much. Look for the small painted-brick structure with heavily fortified windows. The only warmth on the exterior is the red-checked curtain hanging in the window of the front door. Inside you’ll find just the opposite—a warm country café with tables of all sizes covered with the same red-checked fabric and a capacity crowd happy to be there.

Besides burgers, I watched plates of great Southern food be dispatched to tables. Butter beans, collard greens, and skillet corn bread are on the menu, as is the local favorite, lemon ice box pie.

The tables all have clear bottles filled with odd science experiments: things like homemade chow chow relish and pickled okra. One bottle’s contents even the waitress could not identify, but I’m sure it was tasty.

It would be easy to miss out on a lunch at Zarzour’s if you showed up, for example, after 2 p.m., or on a weekend. I asked Shirley why they are only opened for fifteen hours a week and she explained succinctly with a smile, “That’s all I want.”

 

 

T
his is not a burger joint. It’s not really even a well-stocked grocery store. 105 Grocery is a tiny country store, a place to meet and buy beer, lotto tickets, and a bag of chips. They also happen to serve one of the best burgers I’ve ever had in Texas.

105 Grocery is way out there. Far beyond the sprawl of Houston and a healthy 80-mile drive northwest is a burger spot that is barely on the map. Inside and out, the 105 is a friendly, classic, functioning rural country store. Mismatched chairs and tables fill the area by the register and people come and go, paying for gas and hauling away beer by the 12-pack. At the 105 Grocery, the beer in the coolers far exceeds the space allotted for soda.

The best-looking seat in the house is a community table in the rear of the store near the beer coolers. The table is surrounded by a bunch of random chairs and one comfortable, high-backed leather office chair on wheels. As I eyed the chair at the empty table I heard a voice say, “Nobody better sit in that chair.” One of the grill cooks, Sherrie, explained to me that, like clockwork, the owner’s brother, Sam, shows up every day at 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. to sit in that chair. Sure enough, at exactly 4:01 a guy in a dusty John Deere hat walked in, helped himself to a can of Miller Lite and slipped into the chair. A friend in suspenders, jeans, and cowboy hat
joined him with a Bud in hand and all I could think of was how fortunate I was to be in this authentic joint. Most people never get to see this side of the country.

Your choices for burgers are with or without cheese and single or double patty. As tempting as a double sounds deep in the heart of Texas, beware. The fresh, hand-pattied burgers seem to be close to half a pound, making a double-meat burger one full pound of beef. I opted for the half-pound single patty and that was sufficient. The girl on the grill, Beaujolais, told me, “Some folks come in and order double meat with bacon . . . that’s big.” A burger with everything comes with mayo, pickles, mustard, iceberg lettuce, a slice of tomato, and raw onion. The whole package is delivered on a toasted, buttered, soft white bun in a plastic basket and is an absolutely tasty belly bomb.

The flavor was peppery and I’m assuming that Beaujolais (named by her mother, who worked in a wine store) sprinkled a liberal amount of seasoning on the patties. Customers and employees pointed out that Beaujolais was the one who makes the best burger at the 105. Everyone who works here does it all, and Sherrie said it best: “Cook, cashier . . . whatever.” The tiny flattop griddle can be seen though a small pass-thru behind the register and on busy days there’s a wait due to the limited capacity of the griddle.

An older, outgoing regular named Donald, sitting at a table sipping a beer, told me that the 105 has been around forever and remembers the place from his youth, when it was called Jensen’s Store. “I damn near own the place,” he declared. “I’m here every day!”

The actual owners are Betty and John Eichelberger, who own a ranch nearby. Betty’s aunt and uncle Minnie and Melvin Jensen opened the grocery many decades ago. The progression of ownership still exists in the signage outside, making the 105 look like it has an identity problem. One sign reads B&J’S GAS and another across the parking lot calls the place D&K GENERAL STORE. When you call, they answer the phone, “105.” My favorite sign, though, is on the front door and lists tworules—NO SMOKING CIGARS—NO SAGGING PANTS. I wonder if they are enforced.

As Sam sat in his leather office chair and watched the activity at the register, he told anyone who would listen, “Can’t get a bad burger here.” He then turned to me. “I eat burgers here every day,” he said, then added with a chuckle, “I eat all my meals here.”

 

 

D
own in Deep Ellum, a section of Dallas just north of downtown known for its honky-tonk nightlife, is a comfortably broken-in bar called Adair’s Saloon. If you walk in off the street out of the blazing Texas sun, it’ll take a while for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. But when they do, you’ll find a place that is hard to leave. There are happy hour specials all day, old-timey country tunes on the jukebox, instant friends lining the bar, and they just happen to serve one of the best burgers in Texas.

Adair’s is full of beer neon and other signage but most noticeable is the graffiti, which is everywhere. It’s on the floor, walls, and tables and there’s a lot of it. Cute bartender Tarah, who has a tattoo that spirals up her leg, told me, “We encourage it,” and handed me a few black Sharpies. Adair’s is the perfect spot if you need to let loose with a pen after a few beers. Just ask the bartender for a marker.

Settle into a booth or belly-up to the bar and order a burger and a local favorite beer (one of my favorites), Shiner Bock. If you need a menu there’s one posted behind the bar but the choices are limited. You can order a cheeseburger or hamburger, and at Adair’s they only come in one size—huge.

This classic Texas burger is a thing of beauty. It comes in a plastic basket, wrapped in checked wax paper and speared with a fat, whole jalapeño pepper. The contents are bursting from its wrapping, begging you to grab hold and take a bite. A burger with everything comes with a thick slice of tomato, shredded lettuce, a slice of raw onion, pickles, and mustard. They also offer grilled onion, available upon request. The whole thing is sandwiched between two halves of a soft, white squishy bun that has been warmed in a steaming tray. A bite that includes all of these elements is blissful.

Like all classic Texas hamburgers the burger at Adair’s weighs in at a half pound. The way the grill cook arrives at this measurement is one of the more unique methods I have ever seen. Fresh ground beef arrives at Adair’s in long tubes that just happen to share the same circumference as Mrs. Baird’s enriched buns. Sergio Perez, who has manned the griddle at Adair’s for a decade, lays out the beef tube and slices, with the plastic still on, half-pound patties. Each slice is identical (thanks to years of practice) and when the plastic is peeled off—voilà!—perfect patties! There’s an art to slicing the patties and as bartender Tarah put it, “If I had to do it, it’d be a mess.”

The burgers are cooked on a flattop in a spotless kitchen that in no way resembles the rest of the grungy bar. “I keep it very clean in here,” Sergio told me with a smile. The only piece of graffiti in the spartan kitchen is over the door and reads, “Sergio’s burgers are the best!” When he showed me the bun steamer, I remembered that the bun on my burger had been toasted. “Only for special people,” Sergio pointed out. Everyone else gets a steamed bun. The fries are peculiar, long potato wedges that resemble truck stop jo-jos. Even though they are frozen and come out of a bag they are not bad. There is no deep fryer in Sergio’s kitchen so the jo-jos get tossed onto the flattop to cook, making the exterior very crunchy.

Seven nights a week patrons enjoy live music at Adair’s with no cover charge. There is a full-sized tabletop shuffleboard that is addictive and will allow you to channel your inner-Olympic curler. The walls are covered with framed photos and one very large one stands out. Look for the enlarged snapshot of Elvis Presley in a deep embrace with former owner Lois Adair. Apparently, during a live show in the ’50s Lois broke through security to lay a big hug on the King. Thankfully, someone had a camera.

Friend and local burger expert Wayne Geyer led me to Adair’s when I told him I was looking for a quintessential Texas burger in Dallas. I caught him mumbling to himself as we enjoyed our burgers, “There’s something about a Texas burger. . . .” And he’s right. There is something special about burgers in Texas, and it’s not just because Texas is the land of beef. I think it’s because a true Texas burger is a simple thing, but it’s large. Simplicity and size are what make a burger a Texas burger, and Adair’s has it right.