Bronto Burger

Bronto Burger
2982 Dundas Street West





October 19th (I think) Friday, 2007

It's a surprisingly hot and humid October day. "Ah, tropical October!" Of course. On the Broadview streetcar is a classic Canadian sight: some folks are bundled up in fur-lined parkas, others are sitting comfortably in short sleeved shirts. I'm on my way to Dundas West to meet the 2nd vegetarian to join me on the quest: Mr. Jason Lapeyre. We're headin' to The Junction in search of Burger Goodness. Lapeyre, being a Junction local, has a hot tip on a burger joint but, being a vegetarian, can't sample the wares himself. That's where I come in.

We meet at Dundas West station. Lapeyre is grinning happily. "See that woman?" He says. "Seconds before you got here, she was belting out Gospel songs!" A good sign. We catch the bus and head North.

The Junction reminds me of Kingston, Ontario: a similar mix of ramshackle homes and record stores, restaurants and halfway houses. We meander a bit along the street and spot Bronto Burger. Brontos may be big but this restaurant is a tiny cube. Inside is one table and six stools. The back wall has been decorated to look like a fake cave. There's a big "Dino" from The Flintstones licking his purple chops.

We saunter up to the counter. Jay opts for the Veggie Burger and I go for the gusto: a fourteen ounce 'Bam Bam Burger' and an order of onion rings (I know, I know-- my heart hurts just writing that sentence.) The service is super-fast and in what seems like seconds we're pointing to the condiments we want. Lapeyre's Veggie Burger looks great, by which I mean it looks like MEAT. The buns are toasted. Another good sign.

My 'Bam Bam Burger' is two seven-ounce patties on a sesame seed toasted bun. That grilled meat smell hits my nose and I want to dive right in. First I get it loaded up: red onions, pickles, tomatoes, mustard and mayo. We comandeer the single table and get down to it.

THE FIRST BITE is hot and delicious, but also mildly disappointing. The smell, that powerful grilled meat smell doesn't quite match the taste. This burger doesn't have that overwhelming MEAT taste I'm craving. It's filling, though-- that's for sure. The onion rings are delicious-- large and ultra-crispy. All in all, a funky little restaurant with a not-bad burger-- but not The Burger of My Dreams.

Where are you, Dream Burger? Are you out there? If so, I'll find you. This I vow!

Magoo's

Man, this entry is almost a year late! Sorry about that, Burger Fans. And now, without further ado, let me take you back to...

Sept. 28th, 2007

Aw yeah, head out on the highway, looking for excitement-- I mean, HAMBURGERS. My wife and I are being piloted through Toronto’s permanent rush hour by our good friend Mags and his little baby Emily, heading West across the city, past construction cranes and condos, heading ever onwards toward that Hamburger At The End of The Rainbow.

We drive on, past the giant windmill spinning down by the lake, past the huge crackling Canadian flag at the ol’ Exhibition grounds, past the landscaped ads on the highway embankment that used to be made of carefully groomed flowers but are now made of grass and gravel.

It’s a beautiful end-of-summer day, the sunlight bouncin’ off the lake, leaves on the trees still mostly green but some gold and red starting to sneak in along the edges. We veer off the highway onto the South Kingsway Exit and drive through The Kingsway, all Dallas-wide streets and huge stone houses. This is where Mags grew up and he points out the sights as we drive along: the ol’ sledding hill, his childhood school.

Then we pull into a Dallas-style strip mall and step out into the sunshine parking lot and breathe in the smell of fresh grilled meat-- oh yeah, that’s a positive sign. We have arrived at Magoo’s.

Mags used to work here, back in the teenage years, and he tells me a bit about the background of this particular burger joint. It’s owned by two brothers and a sister and even though they’ve been approached many times about franchising, they’ve always said no. With one restaurant, they have greater control over the quality of the burgers. Sounds good, I think, turning from the display of sponsored sports teams on the wall to take in Magoo’s bright primary colors: yellow and blue walls, yellow tables, red chairs. Behind the counter is what I’ve come to think of as The Burger Statement: “In the interest of both your good health and good taste, all of our Magoo Burgers are prepared daily on the premises using only the freshest 100% lean ground beef and are always well cooked unless requested otherwise.” I order a straight-up burger. Here at Magoo’s the condiments come later, Harvey’s-style: after your burger is cooked you tell the Burger Maker what condiments you want and the Burger Maker adds them on. Mags tells me the onion rings are good and damn, they do look pretty tasty so I order some of those as well. I take my receipt, stake out a table and wait for my number to be called.

Little Emily is laughing at the grill and she smiles and grabs my arm as I go up to condimentify (ATTENTION WEBSTER’S DICTIONARY! BRAND-NEW WORD ALERT!) my burger. I opt for mustard, red onion, pickle and lettuce. Lettuce? What am I, a rabbit?

I get my foil-wrapped burger on a blue tray, cart it back to the table and crack it open. Toasted sesame seed bun-- good, good-- and the burger looks nicely grilled. It smells damn delicious and I’m not waiting another minute. THE FIRST BITE floods my brain with grilled meat goodness. The pickles... Strubbs Pickles! Aieeee! Ain’t no such animal in Dallas, TX. The onion rings, however, are perfect: golden brown and crispy. (Man, I need to think of some more adjectives to describe onion rings. “Fantastically Ringy.” Well, I’ll keep thinking.)

Then Mags, my wife and Emily kick back and dig on burgers and rings and ice cream, Emily smiling huge in her pink zip-up sweatshirt, laughing as she rips her napkin into shreds.

The Rosedale Diner

Tuesday Sept. 11, 2007

Man, I’ve been dreading writing this entry.

That morning I was awoken by a phone call. My buddy Chris Turner was on the other end, and at first I was happy to hear from him.

“Turner! How’s it going?” And other happy small talk.

“Have you turned on your T.V. this morning?”

Instantly I knew something was wrong. “No-- what’s going on?”

“Turn on your T.V.”

So I did. Just in time to see the second plane hit the World Trade Center.

See, here’s where words fall apart. How can I convey the shock, the awful sinking feeling of that horrible morning? Staring at the billowing smoke-- the thousands of pieces of flapping paper-- the tiny ant-like dots that were people plunging to their deaths. The fear, the uncertainty-- reports of more hijacked planes coming over the airwaves-- newscasters already chattering about Bin Laden. How did they know so quickly?

I turned off the TV and did what everyone else was doing: I called my family. Everyone was safe and accounted for, Thank God. Then I went back to the television, staring at the screen, stomach seizing up with a tight and awful feeling.

My friend Anne called me up: she, and so many others, were leaving work. The downtown core was emptying: suddenly every building was a potential target. She came over to meet me and we took a cab up to her place. The cabbie was an Arab and I remember wondering if he was a terrorist and instantly I felt ashamed of myself for thinking that. Outside the grocery store near Anne’s house a man with a Star of David necklace accosted us and began spitting hatred. It was Syria’s fault, he said. He looked like a snake, an angry cobra. My stomach sank farther.

That night Anne and I made dinner and watched Bush’s speech on T.V. My buddy Deans called me up and said, “Dude, Afghanistan is f@@ked.”

I remember how strange it was, the following week, to look up and see no planes in the sky. And I remember the buzzsaw sound of the first plane I saw when the flight ban was lifted and how it sounded so wrong and how it looked like Death.

And I remember the outpouring of support. Walking around Toronto it seemed as though every store had the American flag in the window. I went by myself to the memorial service at Toronto’s city hall because I felt the need to grieve with other Americans. A few days after the attack I watched on TV as the Queen’s Guards at Buckingham Palace led with the American national anthem rather than the British for the first time in history. At that moment I loved Britain and The British people, even as I watched with tears in my eyes. I’m crying even as I type this, now, six years later.

That same dull ache, that same punched-in-the-gut feeling came flooding back as I stared at my computer screen and realized I had unwittingly scheduled a Burger Quest stop for today, Sept. 11, 2007. I feel sick to my stomach. Time for a burger.

My wife Emma and I head out into the fading summer, lurching along beneath gray skies, heading up to meet our friend Hema at Summerhill Station. For some reason the train is packed at 11:38 on a Tuesday morning. Is Toronto now like Mexico City with its never-ending rush hour? Not quite, not quite yet.

Hema and Emma and I step into The Rosedale Diner, which is unlike any other diner I’ve ever been to. This is a Rich Person’s Diner, in a rich area of the city. Sitting next to us are The Ladies Who Lunch, sipping white wine and dripping with gold. I’m struck with the sudden realization: there are no diner smells, no snap and sizzle of the grill. The kitchen is somewhere else, hidden, tucked out of sight.

I peruse the paper menu and find my burger. “The Organic Rosedale Burger. Toronto’s Best! Our Very Famous Ground Organic Chuck, with Frites.” Frites? FRITES? They’re called ‘Freedom Fries,’ boy, and don’t you forget it. Frites. La de dah, Mr. Snooty Burger.

The burger is summoned from the hidden kitchen and I blink. Burger looks good (maybe a little small), nicely grilled, but it’s served inside a pita. A pita! What the @#$%?

Hema looks over and says, “That’s not very Texas, is it?”

I shake my head sadly. “Not even close.”

THE FIRST BITE: tasty, beefy char-grilled goodness. Grilled meat taste lingering pleasantly on the tongue.

Hema says, “It IS a pretty good burger,” and I have to agree. This burger tastes like a burger should: charred beef. I am pleasantly surprised. The “Frites”, on the other hand, are shoestring-thin potatoes mixed with burned fried onions. Not good. Emma has a smoked salmon omelet that turns out to be overcooked. We leave the diner, heading out into the now-bright day. My stomach is full and I am with friends and loved ones but I am still searching for a little taste of America, of Texas, of home.

Golden Star

Monday August 27th, 2007

Hot today: summer returns. The see-saw weather of late August. I’m questing once again with Saira (who you might remember from The Yellow Griffin) and we are on the College streetcar heading towards the Yonge subway line (so much better than the OLD subway line, hyuck hyuck) where we then head North. Go North, young man! The subway rattles along the tracks, taking us as far North as the subway can, dropping us off at Finch station. Oh, but this planes, trains, and automobiles style journey isn’t over yet. Our friend Sudenshna is waiting for us with her car. We pile in and continue North. What’s next? Biplane? Hot Air Balloon?

No, next is driving through a neighborhood of strip malls and billboards, very Dallas-like only these store signs and billboards are in Korean or Arabic. Ah, the multicultural flavor of Toronto! And then... there it is. The old school 50s-style Golden Star sign rising from Yonge Street, conjuring Neon images of Vegas and Frank Sinatra. “Golden Star: Since 1964.” Also on the sign, in small black letters: Charcoal Broiled. Beneath that, in huge red letters: HAMBURGERS.

Inside we walk up to the lunch counter, past the orange booths with pale wood tables, and place our orders. I opt for the homemade All-Star burger, onion rings and a lemonade. The burger and rings are served in a red plastic basket lined with brown butcher paper: classic. The lemonade tastes exactly like the lemonade at the S.M.U. pool (Southern Methodist University) where Mom would take me swimming as a child. My Dad (“Pop”) was a Professor there so we had family passes and could use the pool whenever we wanted, jumping in with the intense athletes churning back and forth, surrounded by sorority sisters tanning with their sunglasses and bikinis, fire ants streaming from a crack in the red brick wall enclosing the pool and floating above it all, the smell of coconut sun tan lotion and the delicious smell of fresh bread baking in the Mrs. Baird’s bread factory a few blocks away. Fire ants, man-- there are no fire ants in Ontario and I don’t miss the little buggers one bit.

Saira and Sudenshna kick back and talk about school and shopping. I stare over at a portrait on the wall of a balding businessman and then glance over at the man sorting trays over by the trash cans and I do a double-take. That’s the guy! Much older now, eyes not as clear or sharp as the man in the portrait, but that’s him. “Yep,” Sudenshna tells me. “Three generations of the same family run this place.”

The ambiance is caught in a time lag and I couldn’t be happier. The orange booths, the fake plants hanging by the windows... it all definitely reminds of me of Dallas burger joints from my 1970s youth. Outside Golden Star is surrounded by car dealerships, another thing that reminds me of Dallas. Will the burger measure up?

I unwrap the burger. Looks good, looks good-- and it smells fantastic. I dig in, taking that all-important First Bite. Meat! Yes indeed, that rich Charcoal-broiled taste of straight-up flame-cooked meat. This burger is freakin’ good. There’s a reason Golden Star has been around since 1964, and I think I just figured out what that reason is. I take another big burgery bite, and then another and another. Switching over to the onion rings... they are perfect. Crispy and golden brown.

Saira and Sudenshna and I eat and laugh and eat some more and then it’s time to go. I take one last glance around, soaking in as much of The Ambiance That Time Forgot as I can and then we head back into the here and now.

Bellwood Bar & Grill

The gates of Trinity-Bellwoods Park


Sunday August 26, 2007

Restless Sunday-- phone calls made but no one is answering. Back to the Basics: a Solo Burger Quest. And where else to go on this restless Sunday but back to The Old Neighborhood? Yes, Queen Street West is calling my name. I’m not headed to any of the so-hip-it-hurts bistros or clubs-- I don’t want a burger with @#$%*@ shaved truffles on it, I just want a big ol’ honest hamburger and I know just where to get it. I call the restaurant first to make sure it’s open. This is Sunday, after all, and the long arm of The Protestant Church still reaches into many of Toronto’s nooks and crannies. The phone rings a few times-- my heart sinks-- and then a dude picks up and shouts, “BELLWOOD!” They’re open.

Outside is quiet and cool. Summer winding to a close. The streetcar trundles me uneventfully along Queen Street. A little four year old girl sits boppin’ to her ipod. Music ends and she lifts off her headphones and turns to her mother: “I want Mickey!” A crazy lady changes seats five times.

I step off the streetcar and land smack dab in the middle of Queen Street memories. I lived here for five years in a rooftop shack built atop a fabric store. Below me was an alcove where my homeless friends-- Greg, Stephanie, Punker Dave-- would gather to drink and smoke and shoot the shit. I did my drinkin’ on my rooftop deck (about the same size as my shack) with Saira, my friend and neighbor and bartender, who would knock on my door around five o’clock with a tray of martinis in her hands: “It’s cocktail hour!” Friends would drift by with more booze and the evening would slowly unwind, sun slowly setting behind the public housing across the alley. Good times!

If you’re heading West along Queen Street West, you’ll hit The Bellwood Grill right before you come to Trinity-Bellwoods park. (Hmm... makes sense.) Inside The Bellwood is strictly no frills: a long lunch counter and a few tables. Two T.V. sets blaring. I opt for the (empty) patio: four picnic tables on a concrete slab. Cinderblock wall and a sky blue fence. Birds rustle in the trees. The leaves are changing color, fading to brown. Fall nostalgia rushes in. School days long since over but the anxiety dreams return like clockwork near the end of every August. It’s usually a variation of sitting happily in High School on report card day. I get my report card and panic: there on my transcript is a class (usually math) that I didn’t know I had and therefore have never attended in my life. My mark? Zero Percent, a whopping big fat goose egg. The dream then continues with me running around freaking out trying to find the classroom and talk to the teacher and see if we can somehow straighten this whole mess out. I run through the crowded hallways and get hopelessly lost, hallways slanting downward, stairs appearing and then disappearing-- and then finally in my dream I pause and say, ‘wait a minute-- this report card must be okay because I already graduated from high school. Wait a minute! I’ve already graduated from University!” With this realization all tension dissipates and I wake up, relieved to be done my schoolin’-- or at least my formal schoolin’. If you’re lucky, you never stop learning.

On the patio: a cool breeze and darkening clouds. Can I gobble down my burger before the rain hits? It’s so quiet and peaceful here, tucked away from the steady hum and hubbub of Queen Street West. My fall nostalgia becomes tinged with loneliness: I miss my friends, I miss my wife. I’ll see them all (friends and wife) soon but as the postcard says, I wish they were here.

I just caught a whiff of grilling meat and my caveman instinct awakens-- grab my club and start swingin’, vaulting over fallen bodies to get at that sweet, sweet meat. Yep, I have done the improbable and ordered a Sixteen Ounce Burger. Many times have I passed by the chalk menu on the sidewalk outside The Bellwood and thought, ‘man... sixteen ounces. I’ll have to come back someday when I’m really, really hungry.’ Guess what? That’s right! Today is the day.

The burger arrives in all its sixteen ounce glory. Oh man it smells good and it looks good: toasted bun, huge thick patty garnished with lettuce, tomato, pickle, onion and mustard, the whole burger cut in half for easy handling.

THE FIRST BITE: hot and nourishing. There’s something mixed with the meat but it tastes good. Black pepper? The first half goes quickly, leaving me smacking my lips, a salty aftertaste tingling on the tongue. I breathe deep and dive back in. It’s a Beef Extravaganza!

This is one seriously beefy burger. It’s definitely about the meat. This is a take-no-prisoners burger not intended for lightweights. I stare down at the last bite sitting on the white oval diner-style plate and for a minute I think about walking away but I know I won’t. I gobble down the last huge meaty bite and then sit stunned. I should’ve brought a hammock in case I lapse into a beef coma. Yep, I’ve got Post-Meal Nap Syndrome in full effect. I want to stretch out atop the picnic table and fall asleep. I want to fall back into the straw and doze with the dogs like they did back in Medieval times.

The friendly server pops in to see how I’m doing. I crack wise about taking a nap and she laughs. “There ya go! I’ll bring you a pillow.”

All right-- gravity is pile-driving me into the ground. Better go pay and walk it off. At the counter the grillman squints at me. “What did you have?” A burger, I tell him. Fries? No fries. The grillman nods. “Five bucks.” Five bucks? FIVE BUCKS!? I hand the server a two-dollar tip. This has been the best deal so far, by far. I say goodbye to the grateful server and step back into the flow of Queen Street West: an ocean of hipsters and graffiti. Ahead of me is a cute Asian woman with a tattoo an antique gramophone on her back. It’s a sign. I walk into Rotate This, buy some albums and then head for home.

The Yellow Griffin

Thursday August 16th, 2007

Come with me now to The Yellow Griffin, land of a thousand burgers. Okay, 35-- but still 35 different burgers is pretty damn impressive. You might even say generous. “Care for a burger?” “Please!” “Care for 35 different hamburgers?” “Wha--?!?” And in actual fact there are more than 35 different burgers at The Yellow Griffin, because you can mix and match the toppings and the meat. Beef Burger? Check. Lamb Burger? Check. Turkey Burger, Salmon Burger, Veggie Burger? Check, Check and Check. My buddy and fellow Burger Quester Beau suggested I handle The Yellow Griffin’s bountiful burger offerings in the same manner as a wine tasting: “You should have a bite of each and then spit it out into a giant bucket.” An interesting (albeit disgusting) idea but I’m going to opt for the more traditional route, to wit: walking up Degrassi Street through the beautiful sunshine wearing a loose and billowing shirt my wife bought for me, heading to meet Saira, my friend and fellow burger quester. Together Saira and I head for the streetcar, talking burgers along the way. I’m bitching and moaning about Hal Burger shutting its doors-- that’s right, Hal Burger, the number one entry in the Quest so far, has closed down. Oh how cruel the fates! Alack alay! “Here’s your Texas-style burger, guy.” Smack gobble chomp-- and then it is gone, gone forever. “You never know,” says Saira. “We could be on our way to a new champion.” Yes! Keep hope alive. For what is a Quest but a journey of hope?

In Classical Antiquity The Griffin (also spelled Griffon or Gryphon) was a symbol of divine power, emblazoned on shields, tapestries and manuscripts. If you follow the thrilling world of heraldry-- the practice of designing, displaying, describing and recording coats of arms relating to the duties and responsibilities of officers of arms-- you’ll know that if you combine a Griffin (symbol of divine power, remember) with the color Yellow (also known in heraldry as Gold or ‘Or’) you get not a Wizard-of-Oz-esque Cowardly Griffin but a bold statement about the bearer of the coats of arms: this person is not only full of divine power but is also generous with that power, as Yellow (Gold, Or) most often means generosity. A generous divine burger? That works for me.

The subway disgorges us outside the Runnymede Station and we stumble blindly through the humid city, not exactly sure where the Yellow Griffin is but we know it’s got to be around here somewhere. In another journal, not the one I have clutched under my arm, is the address but of course that doesn’t help us now. “I think it’s this way,” says Saira, so away we go. I fix my eye on a pubby-looking establishment farther along the street but surely that can’t be it, not with the patio bristling with thatched tropical beach style umbrellas. A British-style pub with thatched beach umbrellas? Does-- Not-- Compute. And yet... yep, there it is, a big yellow sign with blocky black lettering: THE YELLOW GRIFFIN.

Into the pub we go to grab a table and wait for our third party, one of Saira’s friends who lives in the neighborhood. Inside The Yellow Griffin is tiny, a few booths and a handful of tables. A server brings us menus that look like the sign, yellow and black and blocky. Our eyes goggle at the menu, burger after burger after mouthwatering succulent burger. Shall I opt for the Bollywood Burger, perhaps with lamb instead of beef as a shout-out to my Hindu friends? Or perhaps the Firehouse Burger for a jolt of that spicy summer heat. The Calypso Burger? The list goes on. Mangos, Avocados, Peanut Butter... Peanut Butter?!? You name it and you can probably find it on top of a Yellow Griffin burger. Our friend joins us and we place our orders. I opt, of course, for The Classic: straight-up beef burger with mustard, onion, pickle, lettuce and tomato. Oh, and some onion rings. Didn’t I say months ago that I was going to cut out the fried sides for the remainder of The Quest? Arnold Schwarzenegger voice: “I Lied.” Or, more to the point, I caved. I folded faster than Superman on laundry day. Sorry, arteries: I just loves me some Onion Rings.

We The Questers kick back and wait for our food, all of us ravenously hungry and growing hungrier by the minute. “Good Food Takes Time,” a sign on the Yellow Griffin’s wall proclaims. Hopefully not too much time. To while away the minutes we chat about summer fun: chicken wing battles (“Whose wings will reign supreme?”) and sunbathing at Hanlan’s Point-- Toronto’s nude beach, frequented mostly by gay men.

After not too long a wait the burgers arrive! My burger is served open on a wooden plate covered in brown paper with four large onion rings on the side. The rings are large, but still-- four? I should’ve gone for the fries. Saira’s friend tells me I should’ve gone for the Sweet Potato Fries, which apparently are the best in the city. I bite into one of hers and she’s right. These are the best darn sweet potato fries I’ve ever had. Crispy on the outside, smooth and creamy on the inside. The onion rings are delicious as well: crispy, oniony, not at all greasy. But I’ve gotten distracted. The Yellow Griffin isn’t about onion rings or fries, sweet potato or otherwise. It’s about BURGERS!

I look down at my almost blackened burger sitting on a toasted bun, a tangle of red onion, pickle, lettuce and three tomato slices piled atop the meat. That blackened burger is pretty damn black... is it overcooked? I take a bite and find I am worried over nothing. That first bite is juicy and bursting with Beef. Yes. Yes. YES. This... this is a burger. I take another bite, bigger this time, letting the flavors roll around my tongue: charred beef and fresh onions and just a hint of salt. Not quite as highfalutin’ as Hal Burger but a worthy substitute. This is so close to what I’ve been searching for, so very close: a big meaty burger that tastes like BEEF. The last bite comes all too quickly, the last beefy delicious morsel disappearing down the hatch.

And with that The Burger Questers disperse, heading back to separate lives in the city but not before making plans to hit another burger joint together, and soon.

Utopia

Sat. Aug. 11, 2007


It’s a beautiful day, full-on summer sun lighting up the sky. At the Degrassi/Gerrard crosswalk I press the button, point to the other side of the street and start crossing. Some dyed blonde woman in sunglasses blabbering on her cellphone plows through the crosswalk in her SUV. On the other side of the road a long-haired dude shouts out, “Get off the phone, you idiot!” I grin and say, “Yeah, really.” Walking across these push-button crosswalks is always a gamble. Traffic Roulette. Be alert, fellow pedestrians!

Onto the streetcar I climb. I’m heading over to College St. and Clinton, the heart of Little Italy. Pizza Burger? Pasta Burger? No, I am meeting my wife for lunch at Utopia. No less than twelve-- count ‘em, twelve-- people have told me to go to Utopia to find the burger of my dreams. Does this bode well? I’m expecting a tasty burger but in Greek Utopia translates to “No Place” which is what Sir Thomas More, author of “Utopia,” was getting at: there’s no such thing as a Perfect Society and there may indeed be no such thing as a perfect Texas-style hamburger here in Toronto. We shall see, we shall see.

On the streetcar I sail through the streets, past the homeless woman at College and Bay sitting on the sidewalk with a dirty pillow (no case) behind her back, past the steely-eyed stone griffins guarding the outside of the Lillian H. Smith branch of the Toronto Public Library (which reminds me, I still need to go to The Yellow Griffin, fabled land of 35 different types of hamburgers) and onwards, heading West. To the South The Goodyear Blimp is circling and a thought flickers through my head: why is The Goodyear Blimp circling over Kensington Market? “Yeah, uh, I need some saffron, papayas, chocolate-covered coffee beans, a jumbo chicken empanada and... uh...” Looking up, one hand shielding eyes from the sun, Goodyear Blimp turning its lazy circles in the sky. “Oh yeah! Four steel-belted radial tires, please.” It’s more likely that The Goodyear Blimp isn’t circling over the coffee houses and dive bars of Kensington, it’s circling over the rides and fried dough stands of The Ex (AKA The Canadian National Exhibition).

No fried dough for me, no-- not today. Today only a burger can satisfy. I jump off the streetcar at College and Clinton and two and a half minutes later (give or take-- it’s not like I was sitting crouched at my table with a gigantic cartoon-style stopwatch in my hand) Emma walks in and joins me. We peruse the menu and my eyes slide right to the hamburger. “Homemade Charbroiled Burger. A 1/2 pound of lean ground beef, grilled and served on a sesame seed bun topped with lettuce, tomato, onion, ketchup, mustard, relish, pickles and green onion mayo.” Green onion mayo, eh? MUSIC NERD JOKE ALERT: What, is this place run by Booker T. and the MGs? AND NOW, for those of you who are not obsessive music geeks: Booker T. and the MGs (including Donald “Duck” Dunn) recorded a song called ‘Green Onions.’ What’s that old saying about jokes? Oh, yes-- if you have to explain them, they ain’t funny.

Em wants a burger, too, which is tricky because she can’t eat wheat. The menu gives her a brief ray of hope-- “Look! A Potato bun! You think it’s made with only potato flour? I can eat that!” But nope, unfortunately not. Also, the server goes on to tell us, there are bread crumbs in the beef. My heart sinks for my sweetheart but it also sinks for the notion of a delicious 100% beef burger. Man, folks sure like to stretch out the meat with all kinds of crazy shit. Bread crumbs, eggs, oats... OATS?!? I don’t want a meatloaf, I want a hamburger. Echoes from the epigram of this book: “You’ll get nothing! And like it!” (Caddyshack). Still, you never know. Never say die! I order a burger with everything except relish and my hunny orders a smoked salmon salad.

We lean back in the casual hipness of the restaurant and wait for our food. Em grabs a napkin and wipes off our table. “This table is covered with sugar!” She’s right: the tabletop is grainy, gritty and sticky. Music is pumping through the speakers and the music is too loud. WHAT’S THAT, GRAMPA? Yep, I have crossed the hipster rubicon and there’s no going back now. Time to put on loafers and a faded yellow cardigan.

The food arrives! The burger looks great: big and juicy, charred meat resting nicely on toasted bun. THE FIRST BITE is as juicy as it looks. Rivulets of mayo and meat juice cascade down my chin. This is a good burger, a very good burger but it’s also a bit of a head-scratcher. As good as this burger is, it’s not ‘twelve people telling me to go to Utopia’ good. Then again, those people and I are working with different measuring sticks. This Utopia burger is a very tasty Canadian-style burger but... Exactly. Not what I’m looking for.

I settle back with my burger and fries. These fries are fantastic, salty and hot, very crispy on the outside, light and fluffy inside. I share the fries with my wife and we have a tense conversation about housing and money and I mean belly-constricting tense. No fun at all but we manage to pull it together and head back into the city streets to wait for a streetcar that never comes. We hop into a cab and together we head for home.