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“OK, cheeseburger, I guess.” I stammer. “But can I get it with cheddar instead of American? Oh, and I’d like steak sauce instead of mustard. And no lettuce, unless it’s not iceberg. If it’s iceberg, then none. But if you have something else, go ahead and put the lettuce on. Oh, and no mayo.”
I watch his eyebrows lift nearly disappearing under his hairline as I order. I give him an apologetic one-shouldered shrug and offer a “please” in the kindest voice I can muster.
A few short minutes later, my very sexy bartender slides a perfectly plated dish across to me. It looks exactly like the photograph on the menu, complete with cheddar and steak sauce and — crisp butter lettuce. I couldn’t be more delighted.
Usually, I’m disappointed because the food never looks as appetizing in real life as it does on TV, or on the menu. But this is perfect. A tower of fluffy, fresh white bun; meat grilled to perfection; gooey, melted cheese; bright green lettuce; a fresh, ruby-red tomato; spicy onion and a Kosher pickle stand erect on my plate surrounded by a sea of thick-cut fries sparkling with a light dusting of salt. The smell is divine. The taste is even better. My Inner Foodie just wrapped her napkin around her neck.
I’m pleased to discover, as I bite into my burger, that thick slabs of applewood smoked bacon are layered between the meat patty and the cheese. It is, by far, the best burger I’ve ever eaten. Probably one of the best things I’ve ever eaten, to be honest.
I nibble on the fries, which come with some sort of mayonnaise-based sauce I’m initially skeptical of. I’m not a mayo girl. But being brave, and practically shamed into trying it by the hunky bartender, I’m surprised to find it’s delicious.
“I make that myself,” he boasts proudly.
“It’s good. What’s in it?” I ask, instantly regretting the question. I’d rather not know in case it has some strange ingredient that totally ruins it for me.
“Mayo, ketchup, fresh black pepper, hot sauce and Worcestershire.”
“Really? It’s so good.”
I sip on another whiskey, which I insist on paying for, and clear my plate. A baseball game comes on one of the large screen TVs over the bar and the place starts to fill up. I order another whiskey, justifying that it’s a dessert of sorts. I mean, it’s not really that much alcohol after all. It’s practically only a single swallow in each glass. It would take like six or seven of these to equal the volume that’s in a beer bottle or four or five to equal one glass of wine. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to get drunk or anything.
