Hamburger America (8 page)

The one thing I’ll bet most people were afraid he would change was the burger. Rest assured that Mike has kept it the same. With a name like Steerman, it would be stupid to question his Colorado heritage or his affinity for fresh beef. The burger at Bud’s is a classic griddled quarter-pounder with American cheese on a white squishy bun. It’s absolutely amazing and transcends the standard notion of bar food. The burger bursts with flavor and is one of the juiciest griddled burgers I have ever eaten.

People go to Bud’s for two reasons—because they know everyone in the bar and for the burgers. Outside of drinks at the bar, Bud’s has served only burgers since the beginning. “It’s simple,” Mike explained, “we don’t offer lettuce, we don’t offer tomato, and we only use one kind of cheese.” Fries? Nope. Chips will have to do. But trust me, you’ll be focusing on this burger and nothing else.

The burgers start as 80/20 chuck hand pressed in a single patty maker. They are cooked on a smallish flattop griddle in a bright, clean kitchen next to the bar. As a burger nears doneness, both halves of a bun are placed on the burger and covered with a lid to steam the bun to softness. Your order is served with a bag of chips and a slice of onion in a plastic mesh basket lined with waxed paper. “That’s it,” Mike told me, proud of the simplicity of his product. Locals in the know request jalapeño slices that Mike has stashed in a small jar in the kitchen.

Sunday is the busiest at Bud’s, a day where the griddle can see up to 500 burgers. “That
griddle stays full for six hours on Sunday,” Mike told me.

Mike seems to be one of the newer members of the Bud’s family, and the only male in an allfemale staff. Amiable bartender Nancy has been serving drinks for two decades and I’m told that Judy, the head grill cook, has been at Bud’s since Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon.

Bud’s interior is cozy and simple. One side is lined with vintage stools, there are booths on the other side, and a few tables in the middle. An original jukebox sits just inside the front door and one wall displays a unique item—the branding board.

Of course, being from New York I was very intrigued by the branding board, something that probably seems mundane to a ranching community. The idea is simple—it’s a long piece of wood attached to one wall of the bar that displays actual cattle brands of the local ranchers. To me, it was a viable piece of “bar art.” One glance at the board and you are reminded of just how close you are to fresh beef.

Despite its roadhouse appearance, Bud’s has become a place for family and friends. Since smoking in bars was banned in 2006 Mike has seen an increase in business. “A little while ago we had an entire Little League team in here.”

 

 

W
ay up in the northwest corner of Connecticut is a tiny burger stand that is definitely worth the drive. It has no real address and no phone but doesn’t need these things. If you show up on a summer day at lunchtime, you’ll find a crowd that somehow found its way there regardless of its off-the-grid status.

I asked owner Tom Mendell why, after all these years, there still was no phone at Clamp’s. He told me, smiling, “It’s always been that way and I don’t see any reason to change it.” Tom’s great-uncle Edwin Clamp opened the little white-shingled stand in 1939 because he had tired of his job as a door-to-door hardware salesman. “I think he came up with this idea because he didn’t like to work,” Tom told me. The stand is still open only during the warmer months, which gave Edwin the winter off.

When World War II started, meat rationing caused Clamp’s to shut down temporarily. During that time, Edwin used the tiny stand to manufacture a faucet washer that he had patented. After his death, Edwin’s wife, Sylvia, ran Clamp’s and worked there into her late eighties. “She was a worker,” Tom told me.

Tom, who lives in Baltimore in the winter and assumed the business 13 years ago at the young age of 30, has changed very little about Clamp’s. He expanded ever so slightly the tiny kitchen, but the structure still remains under 450 square feet. Tom himself mans the griddle at the front of the stand and spends most of his day flipping patties to perfection. And like most great keepers of the lunchtime grill, Tom stays focused and politely refused to answer my questions as he managed the incoming orders.

Clamp’s gets a daily delivery of fresh ground beef from a local butcher, delivered as quarter-pound patties. Tom is very serious about the quality of the ingredients that go into his roadside fare. Everything is fresh, and he makes his own coleslaw and the chili that goes on the hot dogs and hamburgers.

Somewhat recently, the griddle was replaced. Tom wasn’t exactly sure but he thinks it happened around 20 years ago because the original finally gave up. Janine, on staff for 15 years at the stand, told me, “The old griddle had a big slope in the middle from being cleaned so much.”

Clamp’s is an outdoor place. The stand is basically a kitchen with walk-up order windows. You place an order at one of the windows, find a table (made from those huge industrial wire spools) in the grassy grove on either side of the stand, and wait for your name to be called. Don’t expect a loudspeaker to summon you back for pickup. The girls that take your order literally shout your name, sort of like your mom calling you for dinner.

The cheeseburgers are served on white squishy buns with the traditional Yankee white American cheese. Locals know to order theirs topped with a Clamp’s specialty—a pile of sweet, slow-cooked, caramelized onions.

The drive to Clamp’s is half the fun. If you are coming up from the quaint, historic town of New Milford, Clamp’s is exactly 5.9 miles north on Route 202 from the gazebo on the town’s square. Trust me, you’ll need this info as you pass farm after farm, nearly hit a deer (as I did), and wonder if you’ve gone too far. Look for the small white building tucked into the trees with an American flag tacked to its side. The only identification the building offers is a postcard-sized sign just over a side door: a small plaque that reads CLAMP’S EST. 1939.

Tom told me, “Most of the time I’m as busy as I can possibly handle.” The only break he gets is when it rains, but even then, some like to show up for his famous burgers. “I think we have a cult of people who like to show up during thunderstorms,” Tom told me. “It’s funny. They sit in their cars, eat burgers, and watch the rain.”

 

 

T
here are many claims to the origin of the first hamburgers in America. One of them is Louis’ Lunch (pronounced LEW-EEZ). Even if the claim here can be disputed, it is without a doubt the oldest continuously operating hamburger restaurant in the country. What’s more, one family, the Lassens, has owned and operated the tiny burger haven since 1895—four generations of passionate hamburger making. Operating Louis’ today are the third and fourth generations: Ken Lassen, his wife, Leona, and their two sons, Jeff and Ken Jr. My wife likes to call Louis’ “hamburger church”—there is no excessive banter or typical diner orders being barked, just the clanking sound of the upright flame broilers opening and closing and the crinkling of wrapped burgers going into paper bags. People stand at the counter waiting patiently for their order to be handed to them.

The structure that houses Louis’ Lunch is a tiny box with 100-year-old Victorian flair. Small as it seems, it’s the largest it’s ever been. The original Louis’ was a tiny-wheeled lunch cart that eventually went terrestrial as a three-sided cube attached to one side of a large downtown New Haven tannery. When the tannery was torn down in the early 1970s, the three sides were salvaged, dragged four blocks, and an expanded fourth wall was constructed, along with a basement.

A burger at Louis’ starts with fresh-ground lean beef, ground daily in the spotless basement. Every morning Ken Jr. rolls the meat into small
balls. Two balls are pressed together to make a patty, which is placed vertically in a metal grate and then slid into an ancient upright broiler. The grill cooks from both sides and juices drip into a pan below. The burgers are then placed on Pepperidge Farm white toast, simply because when Louis Lassen invented the “hamburger sandwich” in 1900 there were no buns (in fact buns didn’t come around for almost another 20 years). In the 1970s, Ken felt the pressure to add cheese to his famous sandwich. If you ask for cheese, you’ll get a cheese spread that seems Velveetaesque. Due to the unique method for cooking the burgers, cheese slices take a back seat to the spread. Fresh-cut tomatoes and onions are standard, but don’t ask for ketchup or you may be shown the door. As Jeff Lassen explains, “We honestly believe you don’t need ketchup because it’s the best burger there is.” And Ken told me, “Ketchup is a strong flavor. If we gave you that, it would destroy everything we are trying to give you.” Jeff also pointed out that students from nearby Yale frequently try to sneak in small packets of ketchup only to be told that the burger they wanted to sit down and eat is now a to-go order.

Louis Lassen in his lunchwagon, 1907.

 

It’s not uncommon to walk into Louis’ and find matriarch Leona, or “Lee” Lassen operating the vintage burger broilers at a fever pitch. For over 50 years Lee has grilled burgers to perfection for the lunch crowd. In 2006, she was hospitalized with a heart condition, and after only a few months rest, she surprised us all by returning to her spot at the grill.

The Lassens are salt-of-the-earth burger royalty, and they are quite aware of their status in American food history. Regardless of the provenance that surrounds Louis’, the prices are fair and the burgers are always fresh and tasty.