Hamburger hunger strikes again
by Michael Kraft, entertainment editor

    (Part II in a series on the great American hamburger)

    The hamburger has become an almost ubiquitous food.

    Available in a wide array of places for a variety of prices, the burger is one constant in a changing world.

    But what about the places that sell these burgers?

    While the burger itself has remained close to the same for years, the restaurants, stands, bars, dives and grease-pits that serve them have been changing and evolving for better or worse.

    The direction burger places have been moving toward is the multi-national conglomerate fast-food chains that are all carbon copies of each other.

    The old mom-and-pop “joints” are becoming scarce—this is not a good thing as some of the best burgers come out of these unique places.

    People search out these small “joint” places for a delicious and well-crafted burger, but also to observe the people who patron these establishments.

    Usually these places have repeat customers who can say, “The usual,” when ordering and the staff knows what they want.

    The workers feel a camaraderie with the regular patrons. Such camaraderie is totally absent with chains.

    The regulars can talk sports, discuss current situations about cars, resolve world conflicts, ease problems with significant others, whine about jobs and know that their server/owner will lend an ear. Regulars can enjoy the atmosphere, which is the most important, yet dying element out there.

The big chains, either fast-food or sit-down, want to appeal to a broad market of people. Their goal is to make money and present a sanitized environment to appear “family-friendly.” These chains have erased their characters and souls.

    A true burger joint has a soul that cannot be produced. It is earned. It is not a place to take the kids, and it is not a place for someone who wants a to-go order.

    The burger joint is a place with pictures on the walls of famous former patrons or long-dead heroes. Their tabletops have the scars of thousands of plates, the scratches of untold knives and old burns from uncounted cigarettes.

    Their seats have rested a million rears, so that is why they fit so perfectly.

    At these joints, one can find back-slapping companionship or a quiet booth in the back for collecting thoughts over a huge double burger.

    At such a place the neon glows brightly, and the old Seeburg jukebox never rests, turning its old 45 rpm records until closing time.

    The smells of hamburgers, sweat, beer, cigars and humanity mesh with the easily identifiable smell of age in these places that attract people of all stripes, from the group of lawyers having a lunch, to Harley-riding roughnecks, to cowboys, to the blue-collar steel workers, to the average Joe who needs a meal and a cold one.
    The burger joint has something that many places spend tons of money to achieve, but cannot.

    Money cannot buy a burger joint—joints evolve. Every person from every walk of life leaves something in these places.

    Every transaction, every conversation and even the occasional brawl leaves an indelible mark on the small hamburger joint.

    Huge corporations are trying to drive these places to extinction, but do not worry. Moms and pops everywhere still man their flippers, and surely the joint will never die.