A Friday Night Cheeseburger

A cheeseburger, sliced in half, on a Friday night. Lately, its whichever place has hand-cut fries. I order my burger. There’s always a moment of brief inner turmoil as I decide if I should get my burger medium-rare or medium-well. Usually, it comes down to how much I trust the restaurant. If I trust you, I’d take it rare. The waiter leaves and I’m just there. Now that I’ve solved the crisis of which temperature to take my burger, here comes the existential one: is this solitude or is this loneliness? The answer to this question also depends on trust.

But anyway, back to my burger. The intro to my burger is a whiskey and ginger. Ginger beer if it’s trill in there, ale if it isn’t. I take half of this on an empty stomach because it’s been a long week and I like the warm and flushed feeling my face gets after a few sips. The other half of my drink will get soaked up by the burger which, voilà, has finally arrived.

It seems the art of culinary plating is rooted in segregation. Fries are awkwardly bunched to the far right while burgers take the left, slightly off-center. Fries are meant to be in the center, arranged in a shrine of sea salt and potato skin so that my burger can hover in my palm right over top (pay attention, this will be important later).

Ketchup is for burgers NOT fries. If there are packets, I squeeze ketchup directly on the burger…