![]() I needed it to happen - I mean did you read that part about “a rotating metal drum stays perpetually lathered in melted butter?” That the burger is “smashed into juicy, sublime submission” as “the meat starts to caramelize in its own fat, forming those crispy nooks and crannies that make it the English muffin of burgers?” COME ON - right that very second. I could totally make my favorite burger at home with zero special tools or fancy ingredients. But then, in January, Epicurious published an obsessively detailed, drool-inducing, behind-the-scenes article about the making of a Shackburger and even in the throes of that first trimester of food loathing, I realized two things: 1. As one of those city-dwellers without a grill (stupid laws keeping us 8 million safe, sigh), I’ve always assumed that we’d just never make great hamburgers at home. ![]() My current OB, 300x more delightful than my old one, is far from any Shake Shacks, but now that I’ve seen the error of my earlier ways and also rather obsessively crave a weekly burger this time around, I think we can agree it’s probably for the best. It’s probably for the best that this guy came along the next week, because I cannot imagine the trouble I would have gotten into if I had many more excuses to eat there. It wasn’t so massive that I had to take a nap when I was done, it was my first smash-style burger and it was everything. This burger was totally different - thin, unevenly shaped craggy-edged with crispy salty bits and it sat on a tender toasted bun with a perfect sauce, thinly sliced pickles, tomatoes, a ruffle of lettuce and yet wasn’t too tall to eat a bite of without unhinging my jaw like a snake that swallowed a goat (I’m sorry, second reference in one month, I can stop anytime). I settled in for a burger and fries and … can I pause for a moment? I’m getting verklempt, guys… I had a moment and that moment was a realization that I didn’t dislike burgers I disliked those monstrous things that were all the rage a few years ago. It was the middle of a weekday and there was barely a line, if you can imagine something so absurd. In the final week before my firstborn was given an eviction notice, my husband joined me for an appointment and afterward, gently pulled me in the direction of the Shake Shack. They were so thick, so dauntingly large and one-note, so soft and damp inside, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what made them popular. ![]() The reason is even less sympathetic: I didn’t like hamburgers, or so I thought. ![]() Where were my priorities? I have spent years mourning this missed opportunity to not only eat a weekly Shackburger but to have made better use of my last weeks of kid-free leisurely lunches for years to come. I understand if this means we can no longer be friends I am personally embarrassed to know this about me too. The last time I incubated of future generation of my family, my OB’s office - a place you cumulatively spend a spectacular amount of time over the course of 40 weeks - was diagonally across the street from the Upper West Side Shake Shack, and I only ate there once. ![]()
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