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Come for the burger, leave for some ketchup

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Written by Randy Garbin

Roadside is second to no one in its reverence of the idiosyncratic. I've gone well out of my way to sample a regional specialty and to shake the hand of a legendary figure in American roadside lore. Stories about the sandwich with some special ingredient or diner with a distinguishing ritual make good copy on our pages. We seek them out and eagerly spread the word about them.

Louis Lunch falls easily into that pantheon. One of many little culinary enterprises with a long history and an important historical claim as the birthplace of the hamburger, it amazes me that it took so long to get here, but thanks to my good friend the Super Duper Weenie Man, Gary Zemola, I finally completed the pilgrimage.

Many have left their mark on the wooden counter. Where are they now?

Occupying a tiny brick structure that mimics the heavy-duty Gothic-styled Yale campus in miniature, Louis' Lunch makes for an unlikely atmosphere for a classic short-order enterprise. Inside its high-back, ponderously heavy wooden booths would make for fine study in a monastery or a dark, quiet tavern to plan crimes of the century. Instead, we find a wooden counter carved with names and initials that chronicle the visits of customers over many past decades, behind which two or three guys stand waiting to take, prepare, and serve your order.

You can get burgers, drinks, and potato salad. You can also get a slice of pie, but I can't imagine anyone comes here for dessert. Everyone knows this place for the burgers and for the way they make them. Dominating the back bar stands the vertical broilers. Like something out of a Tim Burton nightmare, these gas fired broilers look like a trio of dwarfish tin men from which the guys can cook eight burgers at a time, all turned sideways in a closed rack, an efficiency that comes in handy during the lunch rush or to handle the late night bar crowd exodus.

The end result of a vertically broiled burger on toasted white bread. I ordered the tomato, but they had run out.

One thing that every novice must learn before entering is never to ask for ketchup with their burger. A burger with "the works" includes a slice of tomato, raw onions, and cheese on toasted white bread, sliced in half. If you dare ask for any condiment, you might get shown the door. Back in the day, I could say that with a great deal more certainty. Original owner Louis Lassen, his son, and his grandson would not tolerate anyone's attempt to dress up what they considered the finest sandwich in the world. The fourth generation won't toss you out but he still won't give you ketchup either.

As Ken Lassen explained to me, "We grind our own beef and think that ketchup is an overpowering flavor that doesn't allow you to fully appreciate the taste of the burger."

The dwarfish vertical broiler stands watch over some recently made burgers.

Kind of like putting it on filet mignon. I get it. Believe me, no one appreciates upholding a tradition more than I do, except that the burgers at Louis' Lunch all-but-scream for ketchup. While sitting there waiting for our own order, we saw quite a few bags of burgers going out the door, and I have little doubt that someone would slop those burgers with ketchup before they sank their teeth into them.

And I can appreciate the desire to maintain the purity to the concept, but why would you ban the use of ketchup while adding a grievous non-food like Cheez-Whiz to the mix? (Admittedly, it might not be actual Whiz, but they spread it on with a knife. You be the judge.) How about a slice of real cheddar cheese, guys? In Philadelphia, Whiz is an absolute must on your cheese steak, but no one seems to know (or care) what part of the cow gives up the meat. It's the lowest of exquisite low-brow experiences.

In all honesty, the burgers are dry and bland. Gary assures me that they simply need a little salt, but they need something. And while broiling them vertically may make for a curious spectacle, I can't imagine what it adds to the taste. Someone must have missed the physics class lesson on how heat travels upward. These broilers do fully cook the burger, but a lot of energy gets wasted in the process.

A visit to Louis Lunch reminds me of going to Coney Island Hot Dogs in Worcester, Massachusetts, a similarly worshiped roadside icon where the experience of going makes for a much better memory than the actual product. I got myself into a little hot water for saying as much when I lived there, but I remain unapologetic. A dog at the Coney Island only cost 95 cents (back then), and it was little longer or thicker than Sharpie marker and you could barely find it in the bun under all the condiments. Still, you simply couldn't resist the 30-foot neon dripping hot dog or the immediate sense of time travel when you stepped through the doors. I usually ordered two or three at a time, and I miss it terribly.

Louis Lunch has the same appeal, I think. It's a tradition New Haven gives up at its own peril, which it almost did once. Thankfully the city turned out and vetoed the idea to replace this little brick box with a high rise. They also continue to put their money where their hearts are and support this true landmark, but I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that they do so with ketchup packets in their pockets.

Find Louis Lunch at 261-263 Crown Street, New Haven, CT 06510. Call 203-562-5507 or visit www.louislunch.com for more information.