Hamburger America (58 page)

I squeezed into the tiny stand while my burger was being made and immediately recognized a cooking method that is rapidly disappearing throughout the Midwest—the deep-fried burger. That’s right, the one-fifth-pound burgers at Post #67 are deep fried in a huge, shallow tank filled with canola oil. The fresh pattied meat comes in every Friday from Glenn’s Market in nearby Watertown and over 2,500 burgers are plopped in the hot oil on a busy day. Not too long ago the tank was filled with rendered lard and for health reasons they have switched to canola. These burgers are great but I can only imagine how sublime a lardburger must have been.

The first went down fast so I ordered another. The hot oil soaks the soft, white-squishy bun and becomes a condiment to the peppery burger. If you ask for cheese, a slice is placed on the bottom half of the bun so the hot oil from the burger melts it on contact.

The stand is run by a rotating crew of five, members of the American Legion Post #67 just down the street. Most of the crew members are in their seventies and eighties; each is a veteran who served in Korea or Vietnam. They have a great system worked out for delivering hot and tasty burgers to waiting customers. Someone takes your order at the tiny window and writes a code on a paper bag. The bag is passed back to another who shouts out the order. The cook pulls a burger out of the oil and hands it to another vet, who puts it onto a bun and wraps it up. The wrapped burger is then slid to the bag man who matches the wrapped burger to the code on the bag. When things heat up and the orders start pouring in, this system hums like a well-oiled machine.

There was an awesome note near the tank of oil and onions that read, “On the first, third, and fifth Fridays take a minimum of 50 burgers to Post 67 for bingo at 7:30 p.m.” What a perk for those bingo players!

Everyone seems to have a great time on their shift and no one minds that they are not getting paid. Most of the volunteers are retired military and are compensated in burgers and beer. Not the kind of beer you take home, the kind you enjoy on the job. Intrigued, I asked past Commander Don Hein, “When does the drinking start?” He told me bluntly, “Whenever we start working.” I gathered from the other vets hard at work that in most cases they are way too busy bagging burgers to drink themselves into oblivion. And as Don pointed out, “You really can’t come down here and get hammered.”

 

 

T
urn off your cell phone, grab a pitcher of beer, and disappear into the Anchor Bar for a few hours. You’ll thank me later. That’s the type of place the Anchor is—a very comfortable, dark bar that is blanketed in the most amazing collection of nautical ephemera that you will find anywhere. The stuff is everywhere. Floor, walls, ceiling. “We have more stuff in the basement but there’s no room to put it up,” Adam Anderson, part owner and the son of the man that opened the place, told me. “It’s like a museum in here.” Superior, Wisconsin is a shipping town and a bar like the Anchor fits right in.

Grab the table just inside the door on the right if you can. “We call that the library,” Adam said of the table, which is actually a tiny, semiprivate nook lined with books, board games, and more than one globe. Sitting here, separate from the rest of the bar, you actually feel as though you are enjoying the captain’s quarters on a tall ship.

The centerpiece of the bar is a lifebuoy from the famous SS
Edmund Fitzgerald
, a Great Lakes freighter that met its demise one cold winter night in 1975. The tragic event was popularized in a song by Gordon Lightfoot, “The Wreck of the
Edmund Fitzgerald
.” A violent storm and a failed radar caused the ship to sink taking with it twenty-nine crewmembers who were never
found. “There’s a group that comes in every year on the anniversary to toast the dead,” Adam told me.

Adam’s dad, Tom, worked at the Elk’s Club in town and bought the bar when he heard it was for sale. His first move was to add food to the menu and started serving burgers. He and his manager of over 30 years collected from garage sales over the years the many rope nets, ships gauges, running lights, portholes, and shipping photos that make up the décor. That manager, Bean Pritty, continues to run the Anchor with Tom’s sons, Adam and Aaron. Tom passed away in 2008 and Adam decided to move back home and leave his job as a successful sous-chef near Minneapolis to run the Anchor. Thanks to the dedication of Bean Pritty, in Adam’s words, “The place kinda runs itself. If I’m here I’m just in the way.”

There are more than a few burger options at the Anchor, seventeen to be exact. All start with a griddled, hand-formed, one-third-pound patty made from fresh ground 83/17 chuck. The beef comes to the bar from a local butcher and Adam told me, “If I run low during the day, they’ll bring us more.” Most of the burgers sound pretty wacky but good (like the “Sour Cream and Mushroom” or the “Oliveburger,” the most popular). I opted for another favorite, the “Cashewburger,” topped with Swiss cheese and a copious amount of whole, roasted, salted cashews that have been warmed on the griddle. A young grill person named Tom (who incidentally is named after the former owner and is the son of Tom’s best friend) explained, “They get a little softer when you put them on the grill.” Naturally, the idea for the Cashewburger was born over beers. According to Adam, “My dad liked cashews so he put them on a burger one day.” When a friend asked why, Tom responded, “Don’t you like cashews?” The texture of the Cashewburger is unusual but amazing. No other condiments are necessary. The grease from the burger mixes with the chunky nuts and the Swiss cheese creating a salty, cheesy, beefy flavor profile. And hey, cashews are good for you! The fries are also really good. There’s a French fry press next to the deep fryer and when an order comes in the grillperson grabs a potato, slams it through the press and tosses the fries in the hot oil. The fries are that fresh.

The Library

 

There are a few easy-drinking beers on tap (like Keystone Light and the local beer, Grain Belt) that can be purchased by the pitcher ($2.50 pitchers all day Monday) but don’t miss the Anchor Bar’s amazing selection of microbrews. There are over 90 flavors to choose from. “That’s our dessert menu,” Adam joked, pointing to a box of candy bars behind the bar.

“It’s a likable dive,” a longtime regular named John told me sitting at the bar. “It doesn’t pretend to be anything that it isn’t.”

 

 

D
otty’s is in its fifth location in over 35 years. “Goddamn eminent domain was the reason for the last move,” Jeff Stanley mumbled when I asked him about the moves. It seems the latest incarnation of Dotty’s is working for him though. The exterior resembles a working-class Irish pub complete with black paint, small-paned windows, and the bar’s name in gold. The interior is impressive—quality-crafted dark wood, large inviting bar, and an astounding collection of model aircraft dangling from the ceiling. There is even an eight-foot scale model of the Hindenburg positioned over the grill area.

Friend and columnist Doug Moe, who referred to Jeff as “The Hamburger King of Madison” directed me to Dotty’s. Jeff’s bigger-than-life persona is infectious, and he is a well-liked underdog around town. He is damn proud to hold the title of king and knows his burgers. The first time I walked into Dotty’s, Jeff announced without warning, “Hey everybody! This is the guy who made that hamburger film!”

“We only use the highest-quality ingredients,” Jeff said as I took a big swig from my beer. His burgers are made from six ounces of fresh-ground chuck, pattied in-house. They are grilled on an open flame in plain sight of all customers and placed on specially made local buns that have been warmed and buttered. Grill master David explained, “Jeff requests that the buns are not cooked fully so they remain soft.” David is a bit of an anomaly in the burger world. Not that other burger chefs don’t have his love of the craft, but none to date have been comfortable quoting celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain. “Have you read his stuff on kitchen cleanliness?”

This attention to detail and Jeff’s public persona have put Dotty’s on the top of local hamburger polls for decades. Being a stone’s throw from the University of Wisconsin’s Kohl Center and Camp Randall Stadium doesn’t hurt either.

The name Dotty Dumpling’s Dowry comes from an Arthur Conan Doyle short story, the same writer who brought us Sherlock Holmes. Dotty’s menu is extensive, including an ostrich dish and the bar has an impressive twenty-four beers on tap. But please don’t leave Dotty’s without trying their excellent deep-fried cheese curds—they are indeed a necessary evil.