A few years ago during the press tour for his film Armageddon Time, director James Gray sat down for dinner “in conversation with” Nick Pinkerton at Metrograph Commissary in downtown Manhattan. Per Metrograph’s website, its Commissary is “inspired by the studio eateries from Hollywood’s golden age, where stars would enjoy their meals alongside their producers, crews, and stagehands.” Imagine being a PA on Law & Order: SVU tucking into $11 french fries next to the screenwriter of The Sweet East—chills.
Today, the Warner Bros. “studio eatery”—aptly named the Warner Bros. Cafe—serves dishes like “chicken tenders with BBQ ranch sauce, coleslaw, & shoestring fries” and “southwest chicken wrap with black beans, iceberg lettuce, cheddar cheese, tomatoes, chipotle ranch dressing & potato salad” (both $13). That is, the modern iteration of a studio commissary serves normal food for abnormal people.
A few years ago, WB’s 1941 commissary menu “went viral” both for its prices and available food items: “little pig sausage,” “chop suey ice cream sundae,” a section titled “relishes,” “certified milk,” and even imported caviar for “95” (that’s cents, not dollars). But, what you have to remember is that during Hollywood’s Golden Age, this was exceedingly normal food for people even more abnormal than today.
Metrograph’s Commissary aims to amalgamate the past and present of freakish food and people onto one plane, offering dishes like the “Jack Lemmon salad”—endive, radish, pistachios & orange—alongside a simple grilled salmon with “charred avocado.” And how the commissaries of yore could famously prepare anything for its biggest stars (Jennifer Aniston famously used to order her own custom cobb salad she called the “Jennifer Salad”) Metrograph Commissary will prepare off-menu items for any of its clientele, aspiring to be a dining room which makes its patrons feel A-list, or at the very least syndicated.
When James Gray dined with Nick Pinkerton, he ordered the now-off-menu burger, medium rare, with no bun (his words: “I’m sure it’s delicious but, you know… Old Jew.”) When he takes his first bite (with a knife and fork? hands?) he says: “Wow, that’s so fucking good,” then comments on how the burger has “a relish or some fucking thing,” until launching into a tangent about how it reminds him of a gourmet Big Mac that he used to make for friends when he hosted pre-pandemic dinner parties.
Though I am “McDonald’s sober” (last relapse: one week ago at the time of writing this), any mention of a Big Mac causes my ears to perk and my stomach to growl. It’s a miracle of food product invention: per James Gray, it “should not be ecologically possible,” and yet every day I praise God that it is. I cannot recall the specific day on which I first had a Big Mac, but I remember the gradual shift from ordering multiple single or double cheeseburgers into a solitary Big Mac: like being bar mitzvah’d for a Midwestern fat kid. According to McDonald’s theory, of which I apparently paid to learn about in college, the cleanest bathrooms and freshest food are generally found at locations located directly off freeway exits. McDonald’s tends to franchise less of these locations, as they attract more customers and therefore more business, funneling the money directly back to corporate returns without a middleman in play. But even off the beaten path, perhaps in Marlette, MI, which my dad says has “the best McDonald’s in the world,” the Big Mac is still excellent. Even a lackluster one is good, and if you get a bad one, you’d be keen to think it’s actually your fault: I must have ordered at the wrong time.
So, of course I was intrigued by this James Gray-lauded burger. He’s no James Beard, but he did direct We Own the Night. I had never eaten dinner at Metrograph, so when offered the opportunity a few weeks ago, I agreed (it was either that or Kiki’s, which serves brunch but does not offer any type of coffee beverage—unserious). Like I was making residuals from Friends, I went off-menu and ordered the burger, medium, with a bun, expecting to be as delighted as Mr. Gray.
When it arrived at our table, it appeared appetizing: a toasted potato bun, pale melted cheese, a pillow of butter lettuce leaves, and that “gourmet Big Mac sauce” which James Gray waxed on about. Upon closer inspection, it seemed the sauce was just gribiche repurposed from the crab cake appetizer: creamy, tangy, a little odd on a burger, but perfect for a commissary menu. Though, I noticed something odd about the beef patty. It had defined edges: thick, but with a rigid shape, not hand-formed, but something else—gulp—frozen. My suspicions were confirmed when I took a bite. It was not medium, but rather Gray à la James, cooked not from room temp but direct from a fridge or freezer, leading to no sear on the surface, and no chance that it would ever cook through to a proper medium, let alone a medium rare. I was just happy that the center was not cold. Perhaps the burger used to be a menu staple, and it was made with more care. But between its strange sauce and careless reheating, I implore that if you must eat at Metrograph Commissary, stick to items printed on the menu.
I promise my opinion on these matters holds water; if I were to calculate how many burgers I eat in a year, it would be on average about two per week. This is a significant decrease from last year when I was addicted to McDonald’s and eating about seven or eight burgers per week.1 Because I was so disappointed by my Metrograph burger, I figured I owed it to myself to indulge in a great one before the week was up. My sights were set on K.O. Burger, which is a new, boxing themed smashburger to-go window which opened in Chinatown last year. They hand-smash their patties and stack them high and wide, the meat hanging over the edge of the grease-soaked bun like a sweaty plumber after work with his belly out and ass out on the F train platform (and that’s before they even get to the toppings). If it sounds disgusting to you, that’s because it kind of is, which is what makes it so good.
On my most recent trip to K.O. Burger, I opted for the “double meaty boy”: two smashed patties stacked on a potato bun with chipotle mayo, American cheese, pickles, onions, chipotle mayonnaise, and a couple pieces of applewood smoked bacon. It’s as classically American as a bacon cheeseburger can be, the pickles and onions providing a tangy and bright punch to the warm, smoky combination of the thin, charred meat and sauce.
The burger’s one fault is that it’s messy, but that’s because you get your money’s worth: the humble potato bun can only hold so much, and K.O. Burger certainly tests its limits more than Shake Shack. Also, everything is made-to-order, so expect your food to be piping hot—not the ideal lunch to eat on a 90 degree day on Eldridge Street nearly underneath the Manhattan Bridge, but a craving is a craving. And despite its name, the burger won’t actually knock you out: I housed mine before a screening of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and was able to remain alert the whole time.
After a rousing two hours with the likes of “George Smiley” and “Ricki Tarr,” I headed to Chelsea for a friend’s birthday.2 We were set to get burgers at his local pub, Peter McManus Cafe, which is one of the most bog standard Irish-American bars I have ever stepped foot in. It has its own namesake beer on tap, those urinals that go all the way to the floor, a TouchTunes machine, and bountiful flat screen TVs for “watching the game.” Peter McManus also happens to have a great hamburger, aptly named “Pop Pop’s Top-Shelf Cheeseburger.”
Upon inspection, PPTSC is definitely a product of the self-proclaimed “oldest family-run bar in New York City,” which has been “serving fine food with good spirits since 1936.” Unlike the majority of popular burgers served in the city today, this one is built around a thick, dense, bloody patty, formed gently by rough hands and spiritually by someone who may go by the nickname “Pop Pop”—if you don’t order it medium rare, you’re ordering wrong. McManus uses a proprietary blend of short rib, brisket, and chuck, each half-pound patty laid in a ball on the grill and left to collapse under its own weight when flipped. There’s no smashing here.
When both sides are seared, it’s topped with a slice or two of aged cheddar cheese before the entire hunk of beef and dairy is placed onto a sesame seed bun with red onion, pickle, and “fancy sauce.” Because this process happens so quickly, the cheese does not have time to fully melt, allowing the slice to still have some bite rather than retreat into the burger like a Kraft Single would. When fully assembled with pickles and red onions, the burger almost feels like a salad, with each component complimenting the other, together but distinct, married not by the hard sear of a flattop but instead by a tangy dressing of “fancy sauce.” Despite a juicy, red medium rare, the PPTSC is still somehow less messy than the K.O. Burger. And because Peter McManus is an actual dining and drinking establishment and not just a to-go window, it’s more comfortable to eat, too. That is not necessarily a knock on either burger, but more a suggestion for an occasion to eat each.
Sometimes, though, there comes a burger product which has no proper occasion to eat, less in a, “When would you eat this?” way, and more in a, “Why would you eat this?” way. I’m talking, of course, about cheeseburger pizza, which has been a fascination of mine for the past four years. During COVID, Papa Johns relaunched its “Double Cheeseburger Pizza,” which had apparently been a fan favorite since its debut in 2015: ground beef, melted cheese, “burger” sauce, diced tomatoes, and, most importantly, pickles. December 2020 was a dark time for all, and with no one around to judge my eating, I decided on a whim to order from Papa Johns for the first time ever. It was shockingly good, yet unbeknownst to me I was trying cheeseburger pizza mere days before it was about to leave the menu “for good.”
When I tried to re-indulge the following week, I was shocked to learn of its removal. Luckily, Domino’s was also offering a new, similar pie for those “craving a…cheeseburger on pizza night.” With high hopes, I ordered, but was quickly let down. Its sauce was not simply “burger,” but instead a “tasty ketchup-mustard,” which although possibly similar in flavor profile, has a disgusting and beguiling Proustian association with other food to which you apply ketchup and mustard. Its cheeseburger pizza quickly becomes cheeseburger hot dog pizza, or cheeseburger french fry pizza—just one too many elements in play, like “The 360 remix with robyn and yung lean.” And, it didn’t even have pickles.
Then imagine my surprise to learn that the first mass-scale proliferation of cheeseburger pizza into the American consciousness was done not by Epic Meal Time, but by Domino’s itself in 2005. The headline of the original press release for the “American Classic Cheeseburger Pizza” reads: “Pizza Combines Two of America's, Trump's Favorite Foods.” Donald Trump is then quoted: "It takes my two favorite foods—pizza and cheeseburgers—and blends them together.”
As a challenge on The Apprentice, candidates had to craft an advertising campaign for Domino’s new product. Public reaction was largely ridicule: though everyone seemed to agree the pie tasted like a combination of the future president’s favorite foods, what was the point? In both of The Apprentice ads, Trump takes credit for the new pizza idea himself, because he likes it so much. Saturday Night Live went on to parody this with the below image:
The end of the American Classic Cheeseburger Pizza press release proclaims this new pizza creation as “a cheeseburger you can share with your friends.” And yet due to COVID, I never had the opportunity to do this with specifically cheeseburger flavored pizza until recently, when I noticed that Papa Johns had relaunched its cheeseburger pizza anew as the “Cheesy Burger Pizza.” After basically seven hours of hanging out at a bar downtown, listening to friends and friends of friends DJ, I had worn down my group of three companions just enough that they were ready to indulge with me. And at only $9.99, a large pizza to feed four people is an excellent, Trump-worthy deal regardless of flavor (this was apparently the price of a mere medium Domino’s American Classic Cheeseburger Pizza upon its launch).
To my surprise, everyone loved the pizza: not a piece was spared or saved in the fridge for the next morning (I imagine one cheeseburger-esque quality it retains is not keeping well as leftovers).3 As my post-slice clarity set in just steps from Metrograph, I began to wonder: what would James Gray think of this? He made a movie featuring members of Trump’s immediate family, he’s clearly a fan of burgers—perhaps the Armageddon “Time” of its sequel is midnight, i.e. prime time for cheeseburger pizza. But, I was quickly shaken from this line of thinking by an old Nick Pinkerton Tweet, a reminder that both burgers and pizza are uniquely American garbage meant to be indulged in, and not dwelled on.
This is its own, separate Substack post.
Yes, I consciously planned a two burger Friday.
that SNL Hammond-as-Trump Domino's bit - or as he calls it in the sketch, "Dominio's" - has really stayed me with in the nearly 19 (!) years since I saw it air in real time... I like James Austin Johnson's take on this particular era of Trump (maybe even more so when he was doing it on Twitter) but Hammond is, imo, the be-all, end-all of impersonators.
I ate at the Metrograph Commissary once in 2019 and that was enough.
how does mcdonald’s (Sub)stack up to other fast food burgers? my opinion is that it’s its own thing that’s not a burger so it’s incomparable to its FF peers