The Ecuadorian Burger Craze

It’s late, I’m hungry, and I don’t feel like cooking.

I spent the entire day diving, so I’ve built up quite an appetite.

Food is expensive on Galapagos, so I’ve brought rice, lentils and pasta to counter-balance the daily $100+ tours, but the last thing I want to do after diving is stand over a hot pan cooking pasta sauce and boiling noodles.

For the better part of an hour, a girl I met in Quito has been explaining this burger shop she went. I have no idea how we have talked about burgers for an hour, but we have.

“They are huge burgers. They throw tons of veggies and cheese on it and serve it with chip shop chips (for you Americans, that means thick, decadent steak fries). There are vegetarian options as well.”

My mouth waters, my stomach rumbles, and I lick my lips.

There is nothing that can quench a burger craze other than a burger itself (and for those of you who don’t consider veggie burgers actual burgers, you can go to hell). Courtesy of my friend, I now have the burger craze.

No pasta or lentils tonight.

I make my way to the local food street she mentions, to the last stall on the left. It’s a pizza joint, not a burger joint.

What the hell, don’t do this to me.

Maybe she got it wrong?

Maybe it’s further in.

I walk the length of the local food street in a panic and there is only a single restaurant that semi-matches her description.

Godamn her and her shitty directions. I want a damn burger.

This place will have to do. Nothing goes better with a burger than a large beer, so I order one.

In the time it takes them to bring out the burger I’ve already finished the beer.

Whoops.

It’s all good, I’m about to devour this thing like a hungry pack of wolves eating a deer.

I ceremoniously rub my hands together as my eyes glare at the burger in front of me, the universal get-in-my-stomach sign.

Before taking the first bite, I lift the top bun to dabble a bit of ketchup on my prize, but instead of applying it generously, I drop it confused.

Where the hell is the burger?

I call the waiter over and he apologizes feverishly as he runs back into the kitchen to fix the mistake.

I can understand forgetting water or something, but I ordered a burger and the only thing on the bun is a couple of vegetables.

I want a damn burger, not rabbit food.

I nibble on the chip shop chips as I wait. They taste like every other fry in Ecuador (like oily, under cooked shit).

I’m optimistic that the burger will be better.

Several minutes later the waiter reappears. Excellent, burger time. As he approaches I notice a bowl in his hand. The fuck? He places it next to my plate, and in it, a bowl of black beans.

“Where’s my burger?” I ask annoyed in broken Spanish.

Our conversation ends with him walking away while I stare him down with laser eyes hoping that he will spontaneously combust.

I end up dousing my veggies in ketchup and French dip the shit out of them into the beans to give them some taste.

I still have an unquenched burger craze.

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