Kayne Taylor

Burgers I’ve burgled: Burgers are a hell of a drug

Approx Reading Time-10As it is in life, it is in burgers. In this week’s #BurgersI’veBurgled, our hero asks the big questions: Can you be happy with basic? Will less be more satisfying?

 

 

 

As a great Internet philosopher once spoke, in butchered English, beware the basic x. Although that term was used to defend someone from the heaped criticism of their one note sense of everything, let’s appropriate that to the world of burgers and close this horrible sentence.

There you are.

This week, I travel back in time with woke eyes, I regress further into kidulthood and try to finally prove that looks aren’t everything. Which is moronic, as this whole thing works as an image-based …thing. But. You know, it’s the taste that counts. The taste that you can’t taste. Just envision the taste. Through the medium of jazz and stenciled artwork.

Like Ratatouille.

Step one. Cut a hole in the time space continuum and zap back to 1956.

This week I travelled to that wretched hive of scum and vegan eateries, Newtown, to partake in some premium diner fare, which raised an important personal question: what of time travel? As I fell elbows deep into the greasy Americana smorgasbord (pictured below), it dredged up the idea of me missing out. Born too late to ride the wave of the diner/drive-in, could I – given the opportunity – travel back to the middle ’50s and clog my arteries in the nostalgic Yankee flair? My stomach said yes, heart said no, but for two reasons: 1) the increased strain on its function, and 2) the whole institutionalised racism thing.

Moreover, what Internet? Fuck that, daddy-o.

The following two are the main course of this lecture; the merits of the basic fare. As you shouldn’t apparently judge a book by its cover (I don’t read books), so it goes with not judging a burger by the filter that promotes it. The following two represent the idealised couple you ignored in your youth, in favour of the aesthetically pleasing, yet ultimately hollow romantic interests. These two are those you wish you could go back and treat better, those two who you desperately crave in your adult lives, but have been replaced by the thousandfold pumped up buns of those who you did stupid things in your youth to possess. Payback, it seems, is an unenthusiastic handjob.

So, in today we honour the average looking, but the incredibly tasty burgers of yore. To paraphrase Dave Chapelle as Rick James: the following two are some of the baddest motherfuckers of all time, some of the best tasting and most satisfying motherfuckers I’ve ever seen.

Seek them out if you can.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m bleeding inside my chest.

 

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