Hamburger America

by George Motz

  Sunday is the busiest at Bud’s, a day where the griddle can see up to 500 burgers. “That griddle stays full for six hours on Sunday,” Mike told me.

  Mike seems to be one of the newer members of the Bud’s family, and the only male in an allfemale staff. Amiable bartender Nancy has been serving drinks for two decades and I’m told that Judy, the head grill cook, has been at Bud’s since Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon.

  Bud’s interior is cozy and simple. One side is lined with vintage stools, there are booths on the other side, and a few tables in the middle. An original jukebox sits just inside the front door and one wall displays a unique item—the branding board.

  Of course, being from New York I was very intrigued by the branding board, something that probably seems mundane to a ranching community. The idea is simple—it’s a long piece of wood attached to one wall of the bar that displays actual cattle brands of the local ranchers. To me, it was a viable piece of “bar art.” One glance at the board and you are reminded of just how close you are to fresh beef.

  Despite its roadhouse appearance, Bud’s has become a place for family and friends. Since smoking in bars was banned in 2006 Mike has seen an increase in business. “A little while ago we had an entire Little League team in here.”

  4

  CONNECTICUT

  CLAMP’S HAMBURGER STAND

  ROUTE 202 (NEAR MARBLEDALE, CT)

  NEW MILFORD, CT 06776 | NO PHONE

  OPEN LATE APRIL TO LABOR DAY

  11 AM–2 PM, 5 PM–8 PM DAILY

  Way up in the northwest corner of Connecticut is a tiny burger stand that is definitely worth the drive. It has no real address and no phone but doesn’t need these things. If you show up on a summer day at lunchtime, you’ll find a crowd that somehow found its way there regardless of its off-the-grid status.

  I asked owner Tom Mendell why, after all these years, there still was no phone at Clamp’s. He told me, smiling, “It’s always been that way and I don’t see any reason to change it.” Tom’s great-uncle Edwin Clamp opened the little white-shingled stand in 1939 because he had tired of his job as a door-to-door hardware salesman. “I think he came up with this idea because he didn’t like to work,” Tom told me. The stand is still open only during the warmer months, which gave Edwin the winter off.

  When World War II started, meat rationing caused Clamp’s to shut down temporarily. During that time, Edwin used the tiny stand to manufacture a faucet washer that he had patented. After his death, Edwin’s wife, Sylvia, ran Clamp’s and worked there into her late eighties. “She was a worker,” Tom told me.

  Tom, who lives in Baltimore in the winter and assumed the business 13 years ago at the young age of 30, has changed very little about Clamp’s. He expanded ever so slightly the tiny kitchen, but the structure still remains under 450 square feet. Tom himself mans the griddle at the front of the stand and spends most of his day flipping patties to perfection. And like most great keepers of the lunchtime grill, Tom stays focused and politely refused to answer my questions as he managed the incoming orders.

  Clamp’s gets a daily delivery of fresh ground beef from a local butcher, delivered as quarter-pound patties. Tom is very serious about the quality of the ingredients that go into his roadside fare. Everything is fresh, and he makes his own coleslaw and the chili that goes on the hot dogs and hamburgers.

  Somewhat recently, the griddle was replaced. Tom wasn’t exactly sure but he thinks it happened around 20 years ago because the original finally gave up. Janine, on staff for 15 years at the stand, told me, “The old griddle had a big slope in the middle from being cleaned so much.”

  Clamp’s is an outdoor place. The stand is basically a kitchen with walk-up order windows. You place an order at one of the windows, find a table (made from those huge industrial wire spools) in the grassy grove on either side of the stand, and wait for your name to be called. Don’t expect a loudspeaker to summon you back for pickup. The girls that take your order literally shout your name, sort of like your mom calling you for dinner.

  The cheeseburgers are served on white squishy buns with the traditional Yankee white American cheese. Locals know to order theirs topped with a Clamp’s specialty—a pile of sweet, slow-cooked, caramelized onions.

  The drive to Clamp’s is half the fun. If you are coming up from the quaint, historic town of New Milford, Clamp’s is exactly 5.9 miles north on Route 202 from the gazebo on the town’s square. Trust me, you’ll need this info as you pass farm after farm, nearly hit a deer (as I did), and wonder if you’ve gone too far. Look for the small white building tucked into the trees with an American flag tacked to its side. The only identification the building offers is a postcard-sized sign just over a side door: a small plaque that reads CLAMP’S EST. 1939.

  Tom told me, “Most of the time I’m as busy as I can possibly handle.” The only break he gets is when it rains, but even then, some like to show up for his famous burgers. “I think we have a cult of people who like to show up during thunderstorms,” Tom told me. “It’s funny. They sit in their cars, eat burgers, and watch the rain.”

  LOUIS’ LUNCH

  261–263 CROWN ST | NEW HAVEN, CT 06510

  203-562-5507 | WWW.LOUISLUNCH.COM

  TUE & WED 11 AM–3:45 PM

  THU–SAT 12 PM–2:30 AM

  CLOSED SUN & MON | CLOSED DURING AUGUST

  There are many claims to the origin of the first hamburgers in America. One of them is Louis’ Lunch (pronounced LEW-EEZ). Even if the claim here can be disputed, it is without a doubt the oldest continuously operating hamburger restaurant in the country. What’s more, one family, the Lassens, has owned and operated the tiny burger haven since 1895—four generations of passionate hamburger making. Operating Louis’ today are the third and fourth generations: Ken Lassen, his wife, Leona, and their two sons, Jeff and Ken Jr. My wife likes to call Louis’ “hamburger church”—there is no excessive banter or typical diner orders being barked, just the clanking sound of the upright flame broilers opening and closing and the crinkling of wrapped burgers going into paper bags. People stand at the counter waiting patiently for their order to be handed to them.

  The structure that houses Louis’ Lunch is a tiny box with 100-year-old Victorian flair. Small as it seems, it’s the largest it’s ever been. The original Louis’ was a tiny-wheeled lunch cart that eventually went terrestrial as a three-sided cube attached to one side of a large downtown New Haven tannery. When the tannery was torn down in the early 1970s, the three sides were salvaged, dragged four blocks, and an expanded fourth wall was constructed, along with a basement.

  A burger at Louis’ starts with fresh-ground lean beef, ground daily in the spotless basement. Every morning Ken Jr. rolls the meat into small balls. Two balls are pressed together to make a patty, which is placed vertically in a metal grate and then slid into an ancient upright broiler. The grill cooks from both sides and juices drip into a pan below. The burgers are then placed on Pepperidge Farm white toast, simply because when Louis Lassen invented the “hamburger sandwich” in 1900 there were no buns (in fact buns didn’t come around for almost another 20 years). In the 1970s, Ken felt the pressure to add cheese to his famous sandwich. If you ask for cheese, you’ll get a cheese spread that seems Velveetaesque. Due to the unique method for cooking the burgers, cheese slices take a back seat to the spread. Fresh-cut tomatoes and onions are standard, but don’t ask for ketchup or you may be shown the door. As Jeff Lassen explains, “We honestly believe you don’t need ketchup because it’s the best burger there is.” And Ken told me, “Ketchup is a strong flavor. If we gave you that, it would destroy everything we are trying to give you.” Jeff also pointed out that students from nearby Yale frequently try to sneak in small packets of ketchup only to be told that the burger they wanted to sit down and eat is now a to-go order.

  Louis Lassen in his lunchwagon, 1907.

  It’s not uncommon to walk into Louis’ and find matriarch Leona, or “Lee” Lassen operating the vint
age burger broilers at a fever pitch. For over 50 years Lee has grilled burgers to perfection for the lunch crowd. In 2006, she was hospitalized with a heart condition, and after only a few months rest, she surprised us all by returning to her spot at the grill.

  The Lassens are salt-of-the-earth burger royalty, and they are quite aware of their status in American food history. Regardless of the provenance that surrounds Louis’, the prices are fair and the burgers are always fresh and tasty.

  SHADY GLEN

  840 EAST MIDDLE TRNPK | MANCHESTER, CT 06040

  860-649-4245 | MON–SAT 7 AM–10:30 PM

  SUN 10:30 AM–10:30 PM

  The inside of the Shady Glen looks like a cheeseburger. The yellow-striped wallpaper, warm lighting, and low brown Formica countertops mimic the colors of their famous cheeseburger concoction. Ice cream may be the number-one seller at this Manchester, Connecticut institution, but the cheeseburger is what has made them famous. In 1949, Bernice Rieg invented the “Bernice Original,” which became an immediate success and still accounts for 80 percent of their sandwich sales today. The four-ounce cheeseburger comes with four slices of cheese. The cheese is not just stacked atop the burger; it is symmetrically placed, centered on the burger as it cooks on the hot griddle. An understandably large portion of this cheese makes direct contact with the griddle. When the cheese cooks through it is curled skyward by the deft grillman until it resembles a cheese crown. Amazingly, I watched burger after burger leave the grill with the same dramatic cheese. The same burger, over and over, since 1949.

  “It’s a special cheese, but that’s all I can tell you,” Michael the manager smiled. Michael started working at the Shady Glen over two decades ago as a dishwasher. “At 22 years, I’m still the new kid on the block.” Shady Glen is a very busy place. There are more than 15 employees in constant motion, waitresses in little ruffled aprons and grillmen in paper caps and black bow-ties. This is the real deal, not a mock-up like Johnny Rockets.

  There are no menus at the Shady Glen, just wall menus, and they are basic. You can order a “cheeseburger” or a “big cheeseburger;” the latter comes with the four slices of cheese. The smaller “cheeseburger” comes with only three slices. It’s served on a white squishy bun and delivered to your spot at the counter with your own personal condiment tray of relish, raw onion, mustard, and ketchup. The Shady Glen can sell up to 4,000 Bernice Originals on a busy week. That’s a lot of cheese sculpture.

  The Bernice Original

  I stood by the grill and watched closely—the cheese, which looked like a house-sliced mild cheddar, really does not stick. One of the grill men offered some shaky science. “The carbon, uh, buildup on the griddle over the years acts sort of like Teflon.” I think he’s right. I had a hard time trying to figure out what do with my cheese wings once I had my burger in front of me. Two guys sitting near me at the counter had opposing views. One told me, “Fold the crisps onto the burger and eat it that way.” “Not me,” said the other, “I like to break them off and eat them separately.” A girl sitting on the other side of me was chewing on some cheese crown crisps with no burger in sight. “This is an order of Crispy Cheese,” she told me. This guilty pleasure is served on a bed of lettuce and is not on the menu.

  In 2008 Bernice passed away and a longtime employee Bill Hoch and his wife, Annette, became owners of the 62-year-old restaurant. They did not change a single thing about the place, probably because Bill started working at Shady Glen in 1954. He told me with a chuckle, “I’ve been a lifer here.”

  At first I was concerned about the large mural that spans the entire west end of the restaurant. It depicts strange elves having a picnic of burgers, hot dogs, and ice cream. As I left the restaurant I looked again at the mural and fully understood its significance—the Shady Glen is a necessary fantasy. I hope it never goes away.

  TED’S RESTAURANT

  1044 BROAD ST | MERIDEN, CT 06450

  203-237-6660 | WWW.TEDSRESTAURANT.COM

  MON–SAT 11 AM–10 PM | SUN 11 AM–8 PM

  If you are looking for a truly unique hamburger experience, go to Ted’s. If you are looking for a potentially healthy burger, go to Ted’s. If you are looking for a char-grilled cheeseburger, don’t go to Ted’s. Ted’s Restaurant is the epicenter of the steamed cheeseburger world—a burger that only exists in central Connecticut. A former owner of Ted’s Restaurant, Ted’s son, Paul Duberek, once told me, “Within 25 miles of here there are about seven steamed cheeseburger places, but we’re the only ones that make ten hot dogs a week and 800 steamed cheeseburgs.”

  The steamed “cheeseburg,” as it’s referred to at Ted’s, is just what you’d think it would be—a steamed patty of ground beef on a bun. What you wouldn’t expect is that the cheese is steamed too, steamed to a molten goo. The process starts with a steaming cabinet that holds 20 small stainless steel trays. Specially ground fresh chuck is pressed into the trays and these are placed in the cabinet. The meat cooks through but stays amazingly moist and unfortunately, looks like gray matter. The result is a burger that loses most of its fat content (it gets poured off) and retains a truly beefy flavor. A “secret” cheese (Paul told me it’s an aged Vermont cheddar, but that’s as far as he’d go) is also placed in the small trays in a separate steamer. Once gooey, the cheese is poured onto the burger, served with tomato, ketchup or mustard (or both), lettuce, and a slice of onion, and placed on a soft kaiser roll.

  The origins of the steamed cheeseburger are a bit murky, but it’s believed to have originated at Jack’s Lunch in Middletown sometime in the’30s. Ted Duberek opened his restaurant in 1959 to feed the immense local factory worker population. For over 100 years, that area of Connecticut was home to some of the largest silverware manufacturers and they had shifts around the clock. Ted’s used to stay open until 4 a.m., but started closing earlier as the factories moved their business overseas.

  In 2007, suffering from back trouble, Paul Duberek decided to leave the business and sold Ted’s to his nephew Bill Cally. Bill was no stranger to the steamed cheeseburg and had worked at Ted’s on and off during high school and college. Not surprisingly Bill did not change much about the place and plans to own Ted’s for a very long time. He told me, “I count my lucky stars everyday.”

  5

  DELAWARE

  CHARCOAL PIT

  2600 CONCORD PK | N. WILMINGTON, DE 19803

  302-478-2165

  (2 OTHER LOCATIONS AROUND WILMINGTON)

  WWW.CHARCOALPIT.NET

  MON–THU 11 AM–MIDNIGHT

  FRI & SAT 11 AM–1 AM | SUN 11 AM–MIDNIGHT

  When Charcoal Pit opened in 1956, it was way out on the Concord Pike surrounded by fields and very few other businesses. “It was all farmland and nothing but a two-lane road,” manager of 42 years Frank Kucharski said, looking out the window of this time-warp diner. “Hard to imagine now.” Yes, it is. Concord Pike today is a densely packed commercial strip. It’s a wonder this burger gem is still standing.

  From the outside, Charcoal Pit looks virtually unchanged since the 1950s. The restaurant’s boomerang-inspired marquee with its pudgy pink neon lettering is authentically retro. The interior has seen a few upgrades and design changes over the years and blends styles from the past five decades. If you’re lucky, you’ll be seated at a booth with a tabletop jukebox. These are not props. They actually work. Holly Moore, Philadelphia area food writer and a man who knows where to find the best greasy food anywhere, told me, “Think Richie, Potsie, and Ralph Malph in a corner booth and Al flipping burgers behind the counter. There’s something unmistakably genuine about eating at Charcoal Pit that needs to be experienced.”

  The burgers are cooked over an open flame, as the restaurant’s name implies. The large gas grill, in full view of the dining room, is outfitted with a bed of lava rocks that help to evenly distribute the heat. Grillman of 19 years, Lupe spends hours inches from the flames, flipping hundreds of burgers a day.

  For some reason, for the first time in all of my burg
er exploits I did not order the burger suggested by my host. A burger at Charcoal Pit comes in two sizes, a thick half-pounder and a thinner quarter-pounder. He said to get the big one; I opted for the smaller. The thing about flame-grilling burgers is this—thicker burgers taste much better when cooked on an open flame because all of the moisture stays inside the burger. Thin patties have a hard time retaining that moisture. It’s much easier to cook a thin burger on a flattop griddle because the burger stays moist and tasty no matter what you do. I found myself eyeing a neighboring booth’s half-pound burger dripping with juices, cooked to temperature, and realized I should have listened to Frank.

  The half-pound burger is served on a kaiser roll and the quarter pounder comes on a seeded, toasted white bun. Seems as though someone was paying attention to burger physics when bun decisions were being made. The fresh Angus patties are delivered daily to Charcoal Pit from a local supplier. “We probably go through over a thousand pounds of meat a week,” Frank told me, “and it’s always fresh.”

  Not only are the burgers fresh, other items on the menu are house made, like their crab cakes, soups, and coleslaw. The first time I visited Charcoal Pit I found Frank and another employee in the kitchen straining what looked to be about 10 gallons of homemade vegetable beef soup. “We’re hands-on here,” Frank said as he hoisted the steaming vat of soup.