Hamburger America (7 page)

Michael started working at the restaurant in 1972, flipping burgers and going to USC full time. When he graduated, he continued to work at the restaurant, gradually helping out with managerial duties. In the late ’70s, Michael bought a piece of the business and in 1992 the Foote family, in search of retirement, sold the remainder of the shares to him.

Pie ’n Burger looks exactly as it did in 1963 (with some obvious wear and tear). The wood-paneled walls and plaid wallpaper look beautifully out of date, as does the hand-painted wall menu. A cup of buttermilk is still offered with the usual diner fare of tuna sandwiches and chicken pot pie.

I asked Michael why he had stuck with the burger counter for so long and he told me, “I took the job because it was fun working here. To me, life is about having fun.” Michael also feels like he has been entrusted to Pie ’n Burger’s survival. “I feel like a caretaker to the business for the community.”

 

 

M
any diners across America attempt to re-create the ’50s malt shop experience but few offer an authentic experience. It’s not easy to bottle that feeling unless you happen to have been able to survive the last five decades with your values intact. Val’s was created to be exactly what it is today—a perfect example of a mid-century West Coast hangout that still cranks out some of the best shakes and burgers in America.

Val’s is always busy. At dinnertime, every red leather booth is taken and you’d be hard pressed to find a stool at the long counter that runs the entire length of the diner. There is a constant stream of take-out orders leaving through a side door and the wide indoor flame grill is loaded with sizzling patties. A Little League team had taken over the three booths in the center of the restaurant and a young couple was sharing a hot
fudge sundae in the corner. In the center of all of this ordered chaos I spotted a tall, lanky man with a bushy black moustache sweeping up around a booth. The busboy? Nope, this was none other than owner of 28 years George Nickolopoulos. I asked him why he was sweeping and he replied flatly, “I never stop.” I soon realized that after nearly three decades of ownership he still does everyone’s job, making rounds of tables, the grill, the register, constantly checking and making sure the dinner rush is going smoothly.

Before the arched wood ceiling diner with its large windows was built in 1958, Val’s was a small barbershop across the parking lot. The original Val’s eventually morphed into a variety store and post office run by George’s aunt and uncle, Carmen and Al Valenzuela (hence the name Val). At some point Al decided to start selling “charcoal burgers,” and they quickly became the core of his business. Building a larger building with the focus on burgers and shakes was a foregone conclusion.

The burgers at Val’s come in three sizes—the one-third-pound Baby Burger, the half-pound Mama Burger, and the one-pound Papa Burger. On my first visit I was drawn to the Papa Burger mostly because of its absurd size sporting two half-pound patties on a toasted bun. I tried to compress the burger to fit into my face but still could not ram it in. I actually finished the mountain of meat-and-cheese and was amazed to find that even though the burger was cartoonish in size it was still exploding with flavor and juiciness. It seemed from looking around that the Mama Burger was the way to go.

The Papa Burger at Val’s, actual size

 

I asked George how many burgers he could sell on a busy day and he quickly replied, “If you have time to count you are not doing enough.” Other questions about how he runs the business were met with similar responses. I had nothing but respect for this icon of the burger world and was enjoying his caginess. He did however offer one nugget of advice: “I’ll tell you this. Our meat is far superior than anyone else’s. It’s also in the way you prepare the burgers that separates the men from the boys. No one would ever consider putting as much time as we put into these.”

Don’t miss out on the shakes at Val’s. Longtime counterperson Valerie told me, “The best milkshake I’ve ever had is the Root Beer Banana shake. It’s like milkshake crack.” She wasn’t kidding. The signature shake, also know to regulars as the Rootanana, has only three ingredients—vanilla ice cream, root beer syrup, and an entire banana. A friend of mine along for the trip took a sip of his and shouted, “That’s insane!” I agree.

Val’s is a Bay Area must on a hamburger tour of America and not just for its great burgers, shakes, and easy-going atmosphere. Go to Val’s knowing that it is a family place—not only are generations of regulars still enjoying Val’s, George’s entire family works there in some capacity. It takes a family to run a true family restaurant.

 

 

O
n a trip to San Diego to film a TV show, I made plans to visit one of my favorite burger stands in America, Hodad’s in Ocean Beach. But a crew member of mine alerted me to another nearby out-of-the-way burger spot that I had to try.

Western Steakburger sits on the edge of the up-and-coming San Diego neighborhood of North Park. Opened in 1983 by Greek immigrant “Gus” Constantinos Anastasiu and his effervescent wife, Maria, the Greek-influenced restaurant kept burgers and gyros separate for the first year. But sometime in 1984, Gus piled a wad of sliced gyro meat on a finished burger and the Western Steakburger was born.

The restaurant is set back from the street, fronted by a large palm tree. If you sit on the small front patio, the soundtrack for your meal is the rustling of palm fronds and the occasional thump-thump of a passing urban party-on-wheels. Members of the San Diego police department make regular stops at this burger restaurant and have been for decades (cops
always know where the good burgers are). But before you plan to sit beneath the palm fronds on University Avenue, plan on taking the afternoon off—this burger is a beast.

The menu lists many “steakburgers” and their toppings (e.g., pastrami, bacon, and chili) but there’s no mention of the burger that made them famous. The gyro-topped burger is listed simply as the half-pound “Western Steakburger.” “Gus never wanted to list the contents of the Western, he always says ‘let them ask,’” Maria told me.

The burgers are cooked over an open flame in full view of waiting patrons. Oval-shaped patties of fresh-ground beef are grilled to perfection and placed on toasted white, squishy buns. Grillman Ricky then places a one-third-pound pile of the salty gyro meat on the patty and delivers the burger with mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onion.

After my first bite, I was in heaven. The familiar spice of the gyro meat complemented the burger well and somehow the pound of ingredients managed to stay neatly tucked into the soft bun. About 20 minutes after ingesting this glorious grease-bomb, I had to pull over in my rental car because I was having food coma hallucinations. My advice to you—do not operate heavy machinery or a motor vehicle after enjoying this burger.

Maria was working the counter when I visited. “You have to love what you do. Mom-and-pops are a dying breed.” Western Steakburger was the first burger available to residents of North Park. Today, the tiny familyowned burger joint feels the heat from a McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and a Burger King only a few blocks away. But thanks to recent development in the neighborhood (a condo just went up across the street), people are starting to take notice of Western Steakburger and their flair for coupling Greek and American foods. Maria told me, laughing, “How come after 28 years people are just starting to come? Why couldn’t they come when we were younger and had more energy!”

 

 

B
ud’s Bar is not in Denver. On a map, the town of Sedalia, Colorado, looks like it could be a suburb of the Mile High City, but in person, the tiny town, surrounded by cattle farms, feels as remote as any town on the Kansas Plain.

Bud’s is one of only a few businesses in the small downtown of Sedalia. The 63-year-old bar sits between two busy railroad rights-of-way that are only a few hundred feet apart. It’s not uncommon to be stuck at either crossing for longer than 20 minutes waiting for a long coal train to pass. “Some guys walk out, see the train, and say ‘Oh well!’ and head back inside for another beer,” Mike Steerman told me. Mike should know. He owns the place.

Mike is only the third owner of Bud’s since Calixte “Bud” Hebert converted an auto shop into a bar in 1948. In the 1960s, Bud became a local judge and decided that judges shouldn’t own bars. He sold his tavern to an employee, Thurman Thompson. In the 1980s, current owner Mike started tending the bar part-time to relieve stress from his job as a salesman. When Thurman decided to sell the bar, he set his sights on Mike, knowing that he would change little about the place.