TED ANTHONY examines (and enthusiastically ingests) Minneapolis' famous 'Jucy Lucy' burger and ponders the place of local fast food in an overwhelmingly national fryscape.
(AP Illustration/Peter Hamlin)
Matt's Bar. (AP Photo/Ted Anthony)
At Matt's, the check can get as greasy as your fingers. (AP Photo/Ted Anthony)
By 11:15 a.m., every booth in the dim tavern is occupied, the grill by the door is sizzling and fistfuls of order slips are tacked above it. Grease -- delightful grease, redolent of countless lunches to come -- wanders through the air as a forward guard for the burgers it heralds.
Matt's Bar, a diminutive pub on a quiet Minneapolis street corner (quiet, at least, at lunchtime), has become a Twin Cities staple for serving a sandwich with an unusual twist: an inside-out cheeseburger with the cheese served molten and piping hot inside the burger.
It's called the Jucy Lucy (apparently there's no "i" in "Jucy"; I was told this very definitively by a local), and it's delicious, if a bit dangerous.
"You eaten here before?" the waitress asked us. "You know you can really burn your mouth on these."
Often these days, you read about artisanal food, about regional culinary traditions reasserting themselves, about the Internet and overnight shipping that permits a displaced Texan living in Vermont to get barbecued brisket delivered to his maple-syrup-and-cheddar-infested neighborhood.
All that is wonderful. But rarely do we consider localism when it comes to fast food.
Sure, aficionados do dot the fryscape -- the blog "A Hamburger Today" comes to mind, as does Jane and Michael Stern's unwavering commitment to Roadfood -- but for the most part we Americans are as uncritical of our fast-food options as we are of the waistlines that they beget.
Still, if you look beyond the McWhopperchalupas of the first-ring suburbs and Interstate exits, these bastions of fast food are there for the taking. Just a few examples from my home state of Pennsylania alone: Pat's Steaks and the other cheesesteak haunts of South Philly; the fabled Original Hot Dog Shop in Pittsburgh and its "small" fries that serves four; the Spot in downtown Harrisburg, with hot dogs to die for.
You just have to look a little harder -- and be willing to stray from beaten paths both geographic and psychological. In just 3 1/2 days in Minnesota, we managed to suss out not only Matt's, but three other sites of fast-food distinction:
_ The magnificent and microminiature Portland Malt Shop in Duluth, which overlooks Lake Superior and appears to be housed in a former electrical switching station.
_ A pleasingly unself-conscious drive-in in Taylors Falls called, simply, The Drive In, complete with carhop waitresses, succulent burgers and homemade root beer.
_ Lou's Fish, on Minnesota 61 along the north shore of Superior in Two Harbors, which features the very unlikely combination of smokehouse and motel -- and the tastiest smoked jumbo shrimp we'd ever had (also the only smoked jumbo shrimp we'd ever had).
In the case of Matt's, like so many independent establishments, the cheerfully cranky lack of choice is built into the charm. You can order a burger three ways: fried onion, raw onion, no onion. I learn this when I order one with "everything," only to get a patient smile and an explanation in return.
The Jucy Lucy itself is supremely satisfying -- not the best I've had, but several notches above average. It comes on a soft, undusted roll, and the cheese and attendant oils squirt out much like the juice of a fresh Shanghai soup dumpling; if you bite hearty, and most do, the cheese's trajectory and velocity can easily scald your boothmate's face. My only regret: I had lunch too early to wash it down with a Grain Belt Premium beer. Or five.
Clearly Minneapolitans continue, after many decades, to embrace Matt's and its fare. By 11:40 a.m. there is a line, and by 11:50 the entire establishment is standing-room-only and people on queue were giving us the finish-your-burger-and-get-out stare. I know it well.
I am, understandably, curious how these inside-out cheeseburgers are made. The waitress demurs. "Trade secret," she says. That tolerant smile -- weary but always, always friendly -- has returned. "But if you ask the owner, he'll tell ya."
In the end, I weigh matters and decide against asking. My son and I have already stained our shirts with unearthly yellow goo, and I don't really want to try this at home; that would, somehow, reduce the experience. Some secrets are better left unplundered -- particularly if they keep a place like Matt's open for business.
___
Ted Anthony is the editor of asap.
___
Want to comment? Sound off at soundoffasap@ap.org .
©2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. Learn more about our Privacy Policy.
