Smashburgers are Complete Trash
Why not just put your mouth under a grease trap?
There’s this hamburger place near my house that everyone seems to be obsessed with. I won’t name it, but let’s just say they use a lot of green, and the name could be confused for a small, ramshackle strip club. I once waited in line in New York City for almost an hour to try this place, lured by a New Yorker who swore it would be the best burger I ever had. Of course, New Yorkers also wait in hour-long lines for toothpaste, so I should have known better.
The experience was my first introduction to what people call a “smashburger,” which is apparently a burger that’s pressed up against a scalding hot grill with roughly the same force used install hurricane windows. According to a chef I know, this process turns the fat into caramel, and makes your burger a steaming hot Twix bar.
Ok, that’s not entirely accurate. What the smashing really does is gives the burger a crispy “crust,” like some kind of Food Network meat toast. At the same time, it seals all the “juices” inside, creating the equally appealing thought of fresh-pressed glass of beef juice. Yum!
Never one to wait in line for an hour only to be grossed out and order the chicken, I tried one of these “smashburgers.” It was up there with moose lips on the list of most disgusting things I’ve ever tried.
The first bite unleashed a torrent of pent-up meat juice, which attacked the inside of my mouth like a gang of grease-covered prison inmates. I tried for a second bite, but realized it wasn’t worth the copay to see my cardiologist.
“Mmm,” I said to my New York friend, who was slowly slipping from “friend” to “guy who can’t be trusted to watch houseplants.” “This must be what a clogged artery tastes like.”
Smashburgers aren’t just a vile assault on your mouth. Their smell is just as bad, teetering somewhere between “Hooters grease trap disposal” and “underground Dominican meat market.” Before the aforementioned smashburger chain moved into my neighborhood, the street it sits on was a favorite hangout for men who live in shopping carts. Every time I walk by, I miss their pleasant aroma.
Burgers weren’t meant to be smashed. They’re meant to be cooked on open flames or, if you grew up in the ‘90s, microwaved. When our caveman ancestors were grinding up mastadons and putting them on brioche buns, not one of them ever said, “Hey, Thor, maybe instead of putting meat on fire, you put rock on fire, then smash meat on rock! It caramelize the fat!” Thor would have taken a long time to figure out what “caramelize” meant, then thrown the rock at his head.
Not that I’m brand bashing here, countless lists of “best burgers” always have a few of these smashburger places included. One is appropriately themed after the post office, where you wait in a long, slow line only to end up overpaying to taste glue. But it doesn’t matter who makes them, whether it’s an award-winning chef or a line cook with an ankle monitor. Smashburgers are vile and offensive, and overpower any other flavor they may have with the unrelenting waves of pure fat. In a city as health-obsessed as Miami, I’m not sure why they’ve gotten so popular. Or maybe we’re just suckers for anything involving the word “juice.”