Kate Ruppert
BEN, 34
BEN is breaking the fourth wall and just talking to no one in particular at the audience.—and with no particular motive. It could be because of the color red that reminded him of ketchup, or the Pharell hat that reminded him of the hipster waiter—who knows? . . . An aside, independent of the situation . . .
There are three thoughts going through BEN’s mind:
1.) I fucking hate having to cut my burger in half. The same goes for my any and all of sannys, but you didn’t ask about sannys, so that’s neither here nor there.
2.) I feel like the servers and/or chefs don’t really believe me when I say “rare” and they try to second-guess me by serving a medium damn hamburger.
C.) At this particular restaurant, and two times in a row, this chef—who was a friend of mine-ish and had chosen a particular bun for his burger and a sauce for its bun and the perfect onion slices for the perfectly manageably sized patty and all the stars having aligned—delivered to me a basically raw humble masterpiece because he understood me on a level that was clear . . . suddenly and somehow defining that burger as #1 in my up-until-that-very-moment unconscious ranking of burgers in my lifetime.
BEN They say it always happens when you least expect it. You find the one. And they’re right; that’s exactly how it happened.
If you think about it, we unknowingly rank and rate everything. We look for the best without actually making a pros-and-cons list, or pitting one against the other—it’s just an ongoing process of natural sussing out until we’ve arrived at a completely unconscious conclusion. Happens every day. Happened to me; I found the best one without looking for it, and without even knowing I wanted to find it, honestly. But when I saw it, I knew.
Okay, so backstory. I always order beef. I crave it pretty much all and every day. Allegedly, it’s because I have type O blood, and our people need red meat more than the others, but my craving is carnal. I cannot get enough. Usually, I’ll get a filet, but I wouldn’t do that at lunch, because I’m not an asshole. Anyway, I went to this place for an early lunch on a random Wednesday in a complete downpour with two people from the same walk of life who happened to be in town for different reasons. I ordered the burger. I actually almost lost my shit because it was listed last on the tiny menu, and once I read through the other seven items, I didn’t think they’d even have a burger. But, okay, so it was there, and I ordered it from our uber hipster waiter—who wasn’t really a hipster, he was too nice, but he was left-handed, which is another thing, I guess, that I unconsciously tabulate. . . . I get my shit “cooked” rare. And not just rare, but in the words of my friend Matt Adams, “just walk it through a warm room.” I’ll go into the burger itself in just a minute.
But first, cut to last night. In the middle of the day, something came up, and I needed to stay late at the office. And not because I had shit to do, but because I had to wait for someone else to take care of his shit, so I had to kill time. In the words of every successful airport business plan, the easiest way to kill time is to go to a bar. I needed my bar to serve food, though, and all I could think about was that burger, so I bribed a coworker with dinner. And, this was the catch: The chef at this particular restaurant is the brother of a girl I’ve slept with, and, maybe, am still dabbling in. He knows me, but not really, and as much as I wanted that fucking burger, I didn’t want him knowing I was there. Again. I told my coworker friend that it had to be a straight-up recon mission, like, Navy SEAL shit. We get in, and we get out. He cannot see me. I should mention the restaurant seats, maybe, forty people. Anyway, so we went. It was, easily, my seventh hamburger in as many days. And, I have to admit, that, when I ordered it, I ordered it as if the server had never had someone order a rare burger before. I wasn’t rude, but I kinda spoke slowly and raised my eyebrows, like, we’re on the same page, right? I feel bad; she was hot. Anyway. The burger comes to the table for the second time in less than five days, and my heart sped up, because I knew what I was in for. I’d not just been looking forward to it for the past four hours, but I’d been thinking about it since I had it the week before—which I’ve never done with a burger, I should have known my brain was working on something huge. When the plate landed on the table, it hit me so fast, I almost didn’t notice it: I realized I was engaged in a full-on hamburger-ranking contest that’d been going on for quite some time, and it all came to right here, right now, with this perfect hamburger, and immediately, this unconscious, natural sussing out flashed to the forefront of my mind like in a Jason Bourne movie where every moment of my life hurdles itself forward through the consciousness. Two thoughts beca—three thoughts—became clear: One: I hate having to cut my burger in half, which inevitably makes me feel like a pussy. I want to pick it up and consume the entire thing without worrying about getting it on my tie. Two: I guess I’ve constantly felt like the server and/or “chef” assumes I’ve misspoken, or like I don’t know what I really want in life, when I ask them to make it as rare as health code will allow, and I’ll be served a burger that is too cooked, and you can’t unfire or unruin a piece of meat. Or C. And this was the catalyst for realizing ANY of these three things were even thoughts—the chef—no insult of air-quotes required—served me, for a second time in less than a week, a basically-raw beef patty in a seeming attempt to call my bluff. Well, challenge accepted, Genius, because, short of eating it out of a bowl with a spoon, that’s exactly the way I want it. And that’s when it all made sense. The burger was the size of one my dad used to throw on the grill, but it was definitely not something my dad would have taken off the grill. Bigger is not always better. This gem was more like oh-shit-I-can-just-pick-it-up-and-eat-it, but in an absolutely unattainable way for a civilian like myself. Like, it wasn’t some backyard BBQ burger, it was a fucking burger—you could tell by looking at it. The onions were slight, but not passive, and since they were there, I figured the chef had a reason, so I ate the fucking onions. And the lettuce on the bun was, not only fancy lettuce, but it was hand-snapped to fit perfectly without going over the sides of the bun—which is a pet peeve I also came to realize I had. Speaking of the bun. It was toasted, but not hard, so I could bite the fuck into it without thinking to myself, “this bun is pretty toasted,” instead of, “this hamburger is fucking insane.” You know?, it was approachable. Ain’t too many fourteen dollar burgers that are approachable, know what I mean? I could’ve had it on a date (with his sister or that hot server) and looked like a fucking champ, while still only needing one napkin—and it was a fucking cloth napkin, because it was also the classiest burger in this unconscious competition. I’m serious right now, even as I’m talking about it, I’m realizing even more shit that made it so perfect. And “made” in the past tense like I’ll never have it again . . . it’s like, an option all the time—do you know how happy that makes me? And, actually, you know what, I’m sorry, I can’t even talk about this anymore. I’m gonna do just that. I’ve gotta go see about a burger. . . .