Hugo
A paean to motoring and burgers
Invited by Miguel Angel, I’m on the road towards Fayetteville, on this cold and shiny day. Hugo is the destination, a restaurant that promises a new culinary adventure. I’m not a gastronome, but I do appreciate good, simple food in unpretentious places and by Miguel A’s description, Hugo seems to be such a place.
I chose a route away from Hwy 49, a delightful manifestation of joy in driving my Acura. The bucolic winter-dead landscape to my left and right as I drive down one-lane state roads 264 and 112, hurts my eyes. Instead, I watch over the horizon the admirable turquoise sky and cotton-white fresh clouds traversing the essential frame-mounted clear safety glass of a charcoal-gray, four-door, stylized motorized metal and plastic box, that mounted on four vulcanized tires and attractive aluminum-gray wheels, I drive with the highest engrossment at 60 mph thru serpentine roads.
It’s a February winter day in Arkansas, I reflect, and with inner pain exclaim that it doesn’t seem so, but the look sideways is incontrovertible. Dry brown grass covers everything and when not, it’s bare beige earth adornment of progress signaling a new urban development. Trees, unlike animals, have shed their coverage. No green, no leaves, because deciduous rules around these parts.
Restless with hunger, a terrible question from BB hits my ears: are we there yet?. I’m shamed with guilt.
My selfish driving pleasure doubled the time to Hugo. There are few cars on the road, but a single lane makes for a maddening ride. I speed-up on country roads, passing others when I can, making 60 feel like I’m going 100 mph.
Close to the city, the rural landscape is replaced with urban, but not imposing like a metropolis. Nonexistent skyscrapers give way to four or less story buildings, with spacious parking areas of asphalt gray, white stripes, and concrete bumpers. My directional options quickly multiply. Given this complicated and confusing landscape my focus shifts from trying to pass the car in front, to searching the GPS map and how to calmly and cautiously arrive at Hugo.
After several tense minutes, imperceptible to my passengers, I joyfully welcome a neon sign proclaiming in bold colors “Hugo” and Miguel Angel in front.
I change again my purpose; I need to park. Nothing jumps out in the immediate area and I turn right at the first opportunity after leaving Hugo behind. Blessed are low-density small towns with few public transportation options, where cars reign supreme, as plentiful parking area appears and without a problem, I grab a space. What follows is a hasty opening and closing of doors, leaving the comfort of a metal chariot, now protected only by the clothes I wear and trusting that my legs and muscles will take me to Hugo, embrace Miguel Angel, and satiate my hunger.
Winter imposes, the reality of time and place is a hard slap in the face. The strong winter breeze stirs my body heat. Get moving!, hollers my preservation instinct, cold is no one’s friend!, and turbocharged with hunger, hoodie up, hands-in-pockets, I hurriedly walk towards Hugo. A hug, pats on the back, hello, such are the gestures and vocabulary that reinforce the impression that I’ve finally arrived.
The smell of meat seasoned by fire is a culinary aphrodisiac and a delicious omen.
North Block Avenue where we are has its own charming identity. There’s a line of cars in front of quaint shops where owners have endeavored to give them a jubilant and artistic personality. The electrical switch box in the alley separating Hugo from its neighbor building boldly proclaims in its graffiti “THIS IS ART”.
The talk is familiar, and the visual examination through the windows entertaining. Unfortunately, Hugo is full to capacity and we have to wait in the entrance stairs while I enviously watch the in and out of diners. Hugo is at a lower level, I don’t like to call it a basement, as it may sound insulting, but some would. The storefront window is adorned with simple red neon spelling its name, a typical site that only locals know or its fame transcended into cyberspace. And that’s how Miguel Angel found it, searching for “the best french fries”. With past visitor’s recommendations, the abundance of patrons, and the smell that permeates the atmosphere, the promise of good food encourages my hopes and spirit.
Like a heavenly gift, the much-awaited gesture “follow me” arrives. LL, BB, Miguel Angel, CC, her mother, and I finally get in. After confusingly making our way thru hordes of people, and playing the “who sits where” game, I sit on a hard wooden chair facing a large and sturdy square table for six. With stress relieved and relaxed breath, I pull back (tentatively, hoping the chair won’t break) and grab the drinks menu.
I want lots of beer on tap.
Blindly and hastily I chose the house specialty, a large Hugo Tap 7. A little adventure to start lunch ain’t bad. And it’s the only adventure because from the food menu I calmly and thoughtfully pick out tortilla chips and guacamole as table appetizer, a medium-done beef burger with blue cheese, tomato, lettuce, red onion, no pickles or sauces (no mayo, no ketchup), with fries on the side, for me.
Hugo Tap 7 was presented in a brandy glass filled to the brim. To my suspicious eyes a disappointment. I expected 32 delicious ounces of beer to take me right to the edge of drunkenness. That’s my measure for a pleasant sense of relaxation and cheerfulness, beyond that lies the precipice of ridicule and embarrassment.
But for Hugo Tap 7 the brandy glass made sense to me; a robust yet complex flavor emphasizing chocolate and roasted malt with a higher level of alcohol than anticipated. This combination invites soberly enjoyment, and so the small glass.
Hugo’s indoor, if it weren’t for so many people, would be cozy. The walls to my left and front were decorated by someone who chose “random” as the theme, with paintings, textiles, pictures, and what appears to be construction tools hanging in no apparent order. Behind me, a plaster-less wall reveals its naked concrete blocks with patches of ivory white mortar and taupe swatches. The loud talking and laughing, and the hubbub of the place are all you can hear. Even a conversation among ourselves is amusingly difficult.
The guacamole finally landed from the hands of our waiter into our table and is an immediate success. Prepared in the moment, a bit warm from all the mixing and chopping, with the crispy-salty tortilla chips that came along, pardon the cliche, its creaminess makes my mouth water.
Minutes later my burger arrives and the exquisite smell of perfectly grilled ground meat adds to my palate’s excitement. But I can’t begin without trying the fries whose reputation brought us here. Forgive me Miguel Angel: they are crisp, perfectly seasoned and greasy, but not fabulous. They are freshly fried, so hot that only my hunger tempts a burn, so a little ketchup to appease the heat is necessary.
A bite of my burger confirms the visual aesthetic: if we eat with our eyes, the taste didn’t disappoint. A firm, but not dry, sesame-less bun, of just the right size to cover the steaming, sweaty ground meat blackened by the grill, with a crisp bite, soft and juicy inside. The intense redness of fresh beefsteak tomatoes, the light green healthy lettuce, and the white-pink onion is a striptease with the bread and the burger, tempting, but without showing everything, shrewdly coordinated as a static work of visual art. Pinches of creamy white blue cheese bring an extra touch of umami that elevates the taste impression.
As far as I can remember, the best burger I’ve had.
No end is an end without dessert. For a fearful moment, I thought I had to skip it because everybody else was done with their meals. Absorbed in a wonderful family vibe, conversation, and hunger’s defeat, I missed earlier moments when the waiter stopped by. But CC was alert. She called out for service and ordered, I seized the moment, and with raised hand shouted “me too”; three crepes stuffed with mint ice cream and garnished liberally with sweet dark chocolate syrup.
And with that sugary image, I finish this paean.
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