There are several charming stories about the birth of the burger. All of them are true. Or none. It hardly matters. Any story of the burger’s origin does little to enhance what each of us knows empirically. At some time in our lives, after taking a bite of a juicy, perfectly cooked burger, we’ve said, either aloud or to ourselves, something to the effect of, “This burger is as good as anything I’ve ever tasted.”
Its sublime simplicity makes the burger one of the elemental tastes-what other tastes are compared to. Burgers are also one of those foods for which we have almost wanton cravings, a kind of burger mania—“I so feel like having a burger now”—that unique confluence of longing and hunger whose locus is the burger. This is not the same as wanting to dine at a certain restaurant or thinking you should probably eat fish tonight. Burger lust is not casual, but a deeper, more visceral desire, like the need to play a quick nine holes or listen to some early Miles Davis.
The burger is working class, a solid citizen—a humble and unpretentious marriage of meat and heat. In an age of flash and Baroque excess, the burger maintains its Romanesque simplicity understated, bold, and sturdy. Gussy up a burger too much and it looks out of place, like a farmer in a tux.
So then how come a cookbook with so many different burgers? Because as Mae West was wont to say, “You can never get too much of a good thing.” These recipes find ways to enhance the essential burger, without seeking to replace it. Though they require more preparation than the basic burger’s simple “shape and flip,” they are not overly labor intensive. I would never be so brazen as to suggest you might tire of the basic burger, but rather that you may want to try exploiting the burger as a vehicle for some killer preparations that go beyond it.
Burgers are forgiving. When the butcher grinds the meat, fat and muscle are so intertwined that the burger becomes self-basting. All you have to do is not overcook it. For me, the perfect burger is medium-rare. When sliced in half, it is a frame of charred meat surrounding a roseate middle section that at its center is a deep claret. Decide for yourself what the perfect burger is and try to cook it the same way each time. Figure on an extra minute for each increment, i.e., 9 minutes total cooking time for medium-rare, 10 minutes for medium, 11 minutes for medium-well. Of course, all stoves and pans differ slightly, and the heat on your charcoal grill will also vary, so stay attentive. You can always cut into one of the burgers to check for doneness. Eat that one yourself, or better yet, serve it to one of the kids.
Chicken, turkey, and pork burgers must be cooked all the way through, so remove them at the moment they are done to avoid overcooking. Again, if you have to slice into one to check, it’s okay—it will be hidden soon enough under the condiments and bun.
Is bigger better? Some aficionados covet burgers of monstrous proportions, like they are undertaking a week’s worth of eating at one sitting. They seek out burgers that start out as a large mass of meat and end up, once cooked, resembling a softball hit out of the park one too many times. Following considerable testing for this book, 6 ounces of meat per burger was determined by young and old to be the perfect size for a burger. After cooking, it still has some heft, but it’s not overblown—more like a linebacker than a defensive end. Smaller, thinner burgers usually wind up getting overcooked and merely serve to add but a hint of meat flavor to the bun and condiments. A 6-ounce burger also works well with the heat generated from a noncommercial home range.
All of the recipes here were tested on a 12-inch cast-iron pan on a standard domestic gas stove. Many were also cooked on outdoor gas and charcoal grills. (I don’t recommend using the broilers on most domestic stoves; their area of intense heat is too narrow to cook 4 burgers uniformly.) There was no appreciable difference in taste, and cooking time is pretty much the same: a 6-ounce beef burger takes about 9 minutes total to cook to medium-rare on a grill over a medium-high charcoal fire or a gas grill set on high, or over high heat in a skillet. Poultry and pork burgers need to be cooked slightly longer, seafood burgers for a slightly shorter amount of time, both over medium-high heat.
Chopped sirloin (around 10 percent fat) makes for really good burgers. Ground round (around 15 percent fat) makes for really great burgers. Ground chuck (20 percent fat) makes perhaps the best burgers. I used ground chuck on the outdoor grill with great success, but found it generated a bit too much fat in the pan when cooking burgers on the stove, so I went with ground round or sirloin when cooking in the skillet. Try to get your meat from a butcher shop where they grind the chopped meat fresh daily. It will cost a little more, but the freshness and integrity of the meat is worth it. If you can find organic or grass-fed beef, that’s even better. Though they are on different ends of the culinary scale, think of the meat for your burgers as you would fish-buy the freshest possible, then cook it simply, in a way that encourages the essential flavor of the meat to flourish. Avoid frozen burger patties, which are about as satisfying as trying to have a serious conversation in a convertible.
Burgers tend to shrink around the edges and puff in the middle as they cook. This has to do with a complicated litigation between the collagen and the muscle tissue, which is still being worked out in court. As the middle of the burger gets more rotund, it requires longer cooking time for the center to be medium-rare. By then the rest of the burger is well done. There is a simple solution: After shaping the burgers, make a 1/4-inch dimple in the center of each burger with the tips of your middle three fingers. This will help maintain a uniform thickness during cooking and ensure a greater area of medium-rare burger, which is, after all, what we all want. Note that you can skip this process for the non-meat burgers, unless you find it enjoyable.
I find salting both sides of the burgers just before cooking preferable to adding the salt to the mixture before shaping, which requires excessive manipulation of the ingredients to incorporate the salt. (Some burgers are not salted because the ingredients added, such as sausage, already have sufficient seasoning.)
Lettuce adds a cool, neutral complement to the meat. As for tomatoes, if it’s a tasteless, Stepford tomato, why bother eating it? And if it’s a really good tomato, why insist it compete with the brawny flavor of the burger? Tomato works with many of the lighter, non-beef burgers. Otherwise, it’s better to cut the tomato in thick slices and serve these on the side sprinkled with sea salt.
Thinly sliced only! Avoid the inch-thick bar-burger onion slices, which only serve to devolve the burger itself into a condiment.
For me, a toasted bun is like wearing a bow tie. I know there is a time and place for it, and that it suits some people well, but it’s not for me.
The bun need not have a presence. Like Prufrock, it is “not Prince Hamlet, nor was it meant to be.” The bun should be thought of simply as a burger delivery system. Too little bun is better than too much bun. I served most of the burgers here on packaged hamburger buns. I like them. They’re soft. A crusty bun or bread will resist your bite, causing the burger to squash and release its juices, usually on your shirt. For some of the Adventurous Burgers, I had to think outside the bun and have included other bread choices, such as slices of country-style white bread, English muffins, pita, focaccia, and standard bakery rolls. You can supply your own thoughts. For instance, if you have a source for soft, slightly sweet Portuguese rolls, by all means employ them at will. I would.
Ketchup is the universal burger condiment. This has been proved recently by information returned to Earth from deep-space probes (Mars is red, after all). I’ve recommended alternatives to ketchup only when ketchup itself was inappropriate. Mayo and Thousand Island dressing should be used at your own discretion.
Really up to the individual. Like pajamas, there’s delight in wearing either.
Always on the side. Put a pickle in with the burger, and its flavor will Proust you into a miasma of bad fast-food burger memories.
A well-seasoned cast-iron skillet is preferable. The burgers should not be touching in the pan, and always cook them uncovered. Covering the pan will steam the meat and make the crust soggy. Let the skillet get hot before cooking. This means placing it over high heat for about 2 minutes on a gas stove, slightly longer for electric, allowing for the coil to heat up. Add 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil and spread it evenly over the pan. Cook the burgers 5 minutes, flip, and cook 4 minutes more for medium-rare.
Use enough coals to amply cover the bottom of the grill. Light them, preferably using the chimney method. Once the briquettes have ashed over, dump them over the bottom grate and arrange them in an even layer. Put the cooking grate in place and let it get hot for a minute, then brush it clean. Use a medium-high fire for the charcoal grill—the briquettes should be glowing through the ash and if you hold your hand about 3 inches over the grill, you should be able to stand the heat for only 4 seconds. Cook the burgers for 5 minutes, flip, and cook for 4 to 5 minutes more for medium-rare.
Preheat with the cover down and all burners on high for about 15 minutes, or until the temperature reaches about 500°F (400°F for poultry and fish). Place the burgers on the grill and cook, covered, for 5 minutes. Turn and cook, covered, for 4 to 5 minutes more for medium-rare. (Gas grills usually need to be covered to retain the heat while cooking. Check the manufacturer’s suggestions for your particular grill.) After cooking, turn off the heat, then immediately clean the grates with a wire brush while they are still hot.
