Where to get a burger

When I moved to LA, the land of the thin, I expected (and found) ubiquitous sushi restaurants, menus paying homage to the low-fat, and frozen yogurt parlors.  (It sometimes feels like frozen yogurt is taking over the city; you cannot walk far in many neighborhoods without green and pink neon shining down on you from a Pinkberry knockoff--itself a knockoff of Red Mango--or a new take on "yogurt" and "locale"--a la "Yogurtland" and "Yogurt Stop.")

I did not expect to find great hamburgers, but they abound--from good fast food (In-N-Out Burger, Fatburger, Astroburger) to cranky, quirky mainstays (The Apple Pan, Hamburger Mary's, Father's Office) to the high end (The Counter, 25 Degrees--my favorite), LA knows how to do burgers. 

For the past few weeks I've been coming to terms with saying goodbye to the burger joint.  There are, of course, restaurants that serve some version of a "responsible burger"--Citizen Smith's was quite good, and I recently noticed one on the menu at Newsroom Cafe.  But there's something about a menu with nothing but burgers, fried food, and alcohol that warms my heart.

Well, my savior found me.  Two friends in two days sent me urgent emails (complete with emphatic! exclamation points!) describing the selection at 8 oz Burger Bar: humanely raised/hormone-free sirloin, grass-fed beef, free-range turkey, and primarily locally grown, organic produce.

And so I braved Melrose Ave. on a weekend night.  During the day that stretch of Melrose screams, music blaring out of storefronts, window displays crowded with drama (from leather, studs, and cowboy boots to teeny-tiny clothes made for the throngs of teenage girls that descend in the afternoons and on weekends).  At night, though, it's subdued with a vague hint of danger.  Quiet, dark alleys surprise you; a tattoo parlor looms over 8 oz's modest awning.  (There are also, of course, two hole-in-the-wall frozen yogurt places in the .7 miles between 8 oz and Pinkberry.)

I can't say I adored the design.  The lights are too bright, the cavernous, high-ceilinged space strangely open.  (To me, comfort food conjures images of warm, tight surroundings; there I felt oddly exposed.)

Still, I loved it.  The staff was laid-back, friendly, and eager to get drinks into our hands. The clientele was entertaining.  (To my left, a table of four Beautiful People engaged in conversation about a celebrity-studded event they'd recently attended and the failures of their respective agents to capitalize on the opportunity.  To my right was a girl who'd just decided to move out of her parents' home and was celebrating, with a male friend of uncertain intentions, her newfound freedom.  Around 8:30 a group walked in wearing cocktail attire, leaving me daydreaming about what series of events could possibly have led them to a burger dive, dressed like that, so early on a weekend night.  But it is LA, and maybe they were dressed up solely for their burger outing.)

At the waitress's suggestion I got the 8 oz (plus fancy cheese).  My crappy camera cannot do it justice; when it arrived, it literally glistened.  After the first bite, time stopped.  The crisp white onion and ripe tomatoes tasted like they'd come from a neighbor's garden.  The pickles were perfect.  Humboldt Fog oozed out of the sides and "special sauce" dripped down my fingers.  I hate messy eating, but in that moment I didn't care; I gave up on my napkin and slobbered my way through every last bite.  I licked my fingers clean.

As a side we had Truffled Potato Skins.  Unlike the thick, starchy standard, these were cut in long, thin slivers, mostly skin with just a hint of flesh.  They were surprisingly light, sprinkled with cheese and a solid dose of truffle oil.   By the end of the meal there was not a crumb in sight. 

The bill was reasonable, and I walked out smiling.  Thankfully burgers, fried food, and wine are still within reach.