Chains of Love

White Manna

Did I love it? Sure. Then again, I love White Castle. No burger snoberry here.

Technically, White Manna isn't a chain because it's not affiliated with the Jersey City location with the missing N, White Mana. Close enough for me, though.

Perhaps to my detriment, I’ve never been one of those single-minded bloggers who can focus clearly on passions like pizza or hating cilantro. In this case, I’m talking about burgers, the everyman foodstuff of the moment.

Recently my attention has been drawn to Nick Solares’ New Jersey slider posts on A Hamburger Today not because I’m slider-crazed but because I’m in this part of that state, specifically Linden, at least once a month if not more getting my share of mall culture and classic late 20th century chains. And I’d never paid any mind to these still thriving (well, some of them—the Linden White Diamond closed right after I read about it) relics I drive by on a regular basis.

White Rose System in Roselle was a bust because I became inexplicably car sick on the way there and couldn’t appreciate my full-sized ketchup-heavy kaiser roll slider (slider doesn’t equal mini burger, it is specific to the griddle steaming process) and crinkle cut fries, and these places almost always serve crinkle cuts.

The following Saturday on the tail end of an unusally burger-filled week (Thursday I had a cheeseburger at Waterfront Ale House—they’ve always done right by me but on this occasion by medium-rare came out medium-well. Maybe that’s why I forget my uneaten half in the car overnight and didn’t even feel pain when I tossed it in the trash) we decided to try the no-secret-to-anyone (heck, Guy Fieri’s graced the compact red-and-silver diner with his outsize presence) White Manna in Hackensack, a little further north than my usual stomping grounds.

 

Two seats opened up at the counter after we arrived so we weren’t relegated to the midget seats in the window. I know Americans have grown since the ’40s, but a whole foot? This was the perfect spot for viewing the cooking procedure, which takes a little longer than you might think. Compared to McDonald’s (I was going to say White Castle to be more apples to apples but a person could go gray waiting for a combo there) this is not really fast food. It can take ten minutes for the naked balls of meat to make it from the right side of the crammed griddle to the left, potato roll on top, cheese melted, steamed through and through.

The finished product is a bit more substantial than a White Castle slider, and the meat’s texture is less baby food mushy. If you order yours to stay you add you own pickles, ketchup and/or mustard. The only off part to me were the onions, which are thinly cut rings instead of chopped bits. There’s no way to take a bite without a strand or two of onions pulling out while you try to gnaw free.

Every other fry was cooked  a shade beyond golden, which was just right. There’s nothing worse than pale mealy frozen fries.

White Manna * 358 River St., Hackensack, NJ

Elmer's

Did I love it? More now than ever, though I wouldn't sway from the breakfast menu.

Elmer’s is yet another Northwest chain that has jumped on the seasonal/local bandwagon. In my day they were like a regional Denny’s. Really, they still are but now tout Dungeness crab, Walla Walla onions and the like. But being for regular Joes they serve Boyd’s coffee not Stumptown.

Boyd’s is the brand of coffee they might provide in your office break room. I went to school with a Boyd’s heir, which is nothing like being a Hilton. This kid was kind of geeky and had a bowl cut well beyond the age and era where that was acceptable or in style.

I was looking forward to a big Elmer’s breakfast because I rarely have the opportunity to eat that meal properly with the whole shebang: eggs, potatoes, smoked meat, toast and maybe more. In my normal life, I just eat oatmeal or granola bars in the morning, on weekends I’m vehemently opposed to brunch and on vacation I can never get out the door before noon. I thought the beauty of Elmer’s was that breakfast was available all day, so I was saddened to be presented with a lunch menu at 12:30pm on Labor Day while en route to Mount Hood. Bah.

I consoled myself with a grilled cheese (Tillamook, of course) with bacon and tomato. Or at least tried to, but the generous mayonnaise layer got in the way of my enjoyment. Warm mayo is scary like treading water in a murky sea and being brushed against by a plesiosaurus. Horrifying…and well, more common.

A group seated next to us asked for breakfast menus. D’oh. I don’t know why I just didn’t ask.

I had better luck a few days later in Springfield when I visited another Elmer’s and got the breakfast I had been dreaming of. There’s always an internal debate over sweet or savory at places like this. Eggs usually win but they do have a tempting Dutch baby pancake.

This is Mr. Elmer’s omelet with swiss, tomatoes, mushrooms and honey ham. I’m not even sure that there is a Mr. Elmer but that’s ok. I was swayed by the hollandaise topping. Either go caloric or go home. I love that you get a biscuit instead of boring ol’ toast ,and best of all, a choice of three styles of hashbrowns: plain, with onions and peppers or interspersed with Tillamook cheddar cheese. Cheese for me.

Elmer’s * 1590 NW Burnside, Gresham, OR; 3350 Gateway, Springfield, OR (and various locations)

Burgerville

Did I love it? Absolutely. I only regret having time for just one visit.

I can’t pinpoint when Burgerville went from being a regular, albeit regional—they’re based in Vancouver, Washington—burger chain to the revered sustainable/local/seasonal darling it is today. For many, like that bike-riding drive-thru woman who recently caused a flap, it’s the only fast food they’ll deign to eat.

I primarily remember it being where my dad and his fellow classic car enthusiasts would meet up and show off their tricked out autos in the parking lot. I guess because Burgerville has adopted a vague ‘50s décor and uses a jukebox on their sign?

But the food is really good and who can argue with using what’s fresh and when it’s gone it’s gone? I’m just bummed that we missed the Walla Walla onion rings by a few weeks. On my visit they were promoting poblano peppers, sweet potatoes and blackberries, as well as advertising upcoming apples and cranberries.

It was also worth noting that you can substitute a side salad for fries and bottled water is a combo option in addition to fountain beverages. As a soda-loather, this is appreciated. I’ve always been bothered by water costing more than soft drinks. I’ll take the fries, though.

I accidentally ordered a wimpy cheeseburger instead of one of the beefier varieties so I had to strain to try and detect all of those grass-fed, antibiotic-and-hormone-free nuances shining through. Frankly, what made this burger so awesome was the combination of melted Tillamook cheddar and that sauce that I’d totally forgotten about. Plain mayonnaise scares the crap out of me but incorporated into condiments, the eggy richness transcends the fluffy white emulsion. They sell the spread in jars at the counter so I know I’m not alone in my love.

I prefer caramelly, chocolate, nutty flavors of ice cream over fruity varieties. I guess I’m just not crazy about fruit, though I do like berries, cherries and tropical stuff. The Northwest is teeming with berries like huckleberry, marionberry, boysenberry, olalaberry, not just regular black and rasp. This lavender shake ruled; sweet without straying into sickly territory.

After eating, we ordered two pepper bacon cheeseburgers for the road. I think the counter kid thought we were crazy.

The bread is from Franz, who I happen to have a personal beef with for a very legitimate reason. Not too long before I moved to NYC, one of their delivery trucks crashed into my parked car and totaled it during an early a.m. rainstorm. (In a weird way, it kept me from going to court. Days before this incident I had been pulled over by cops and cited for driving without insurance. I was scheduled to go to court to prove I had gotten it but no more car solved that problem nicely.)

These Franz trucks haunted my entire week in Oregon. There was a Franz bakery outlet just a block from the Burgerville in Albany where we stopped on our way to Eugene. We ended up spending over $10 on non-Franz junk like pepperoni sticks, mini pecan pies and Annabelle candy bars, Abba Zabba and Big Hunk, both non-existent on the East Coast (what, no Idaho Spud?) so we were entitled to two items from the sale rack. No one needs loaves of white bread on vacation but I grabbed a pack of hamburger buns just to be safe.

Burgerville * 2310 Santiam Hwy SE, Albany, OR

Carl's Jr.

Did I love it? In theory. The experience was more exciting than the food.

Eating at Carl’s Jr. on a Portland vacation doesn’t make much sense but I like trying West Coast chains that are absent in NYC. Don’t worry, I also ate at Burgerville, the acceptably seasonal and local Northwest fast food chain, too. If I had more time I would’ve also popped into Jack in the Box and the strange new-to-me sit down restaurant, Claim Jumper.

The first thing I was reminded of while walking along the bus mall from our hotel to Carl’s Jr. a few blocks up the street was that Oregon may as well lose its Beaver State nickname and borrow from Oklahoma. I don’t know that there’s a more panhandley state in the nation. Oregonians who haven’t been to NYC don’t seem to realize that here it’s not normal to see someone sleeping on porches, in every doorway and to be asked for change every few feet. Last year I noticed a man asking for change on William St. near my office. He’s been there ever since and the only reason I notice him is because he’s the only pandhandler I’ve encountered in the Financial District. Ok, there’s also that tranny who begs at the Carroll St. F in the evenings but that works out to like one panhandler per neighborhood.

I was reading blog reviews about Clyde Common (which I just wrote about) and was struck by this comment, which you would never see on an NYC website:

"I will indeed try to visit. Unfortunately my last effort left me confronted with about 30 street people lying or sitting on the sidewalk around the entrance at noon. Not wanting to go through the beggars brigade with associated insults if I did not drop money, I left for more options in less confrontational climes."

Nice. But even more striking was that the entire Carl’s Jr. and neighboring streets had been taken over by cosplay kids. Apparently, an anime convention for youngsters (I saw maybe two chubby guys over 30 and there were a few over-21s because I heard an exchange, “I’m not drinking any $5 beers.” “No, this place isn’t expensive.” If I had any doubt I was back in Portland where a $5 beer might be considered luxurious) was in town and everyone had on their best rainbow tights, hooded cloaks, cat ears, turquoise wigs, plastic swords in tow. The thing is, no one appeared to be dressed as a particular character. I withhold judgment since I was once a bored, white, middle class, geeky teen living in the suburbs of this very second (third?) tier city. There are worse outlets for too much free time.

Most jarring of all (after noticing that the staff was entirely white, super polite, some middle aged, and that they bring the food to your table--I suppose that in minority-less cities, someone must staff service industry jobs) was that the eatery had completely run out of ketchup. What kind of fast food joint runs out of ketchup?! We were offered bbq sauce instead.

Knowing I would be eating a proper meal in a few hours, I shied away from the Six Dollar Burgers and chose the basic Famous Star with cheese. It was fine, nothing more. You can order your meals small, medium or large, meaning the size of your fries and drink. My respectable skin-on fries and Minute Maid lemonade were mediums.

Concentrating on the burger proved difficult because we had walked into the middle of what felt like a high school drama club field trip with a dash of non-dining tweekers going from table to table saying who knows what because I wouldn’t make eye contact since I know better than to engage spazzy strangers. As we were getting ready to leave, a young-ish tattooed bike messenger-y kid came over and asked if he could have the rest of our fries, the six or so stragglers that were covered with a used napkin. Uh, I guess.

On one hand, I hate waste, maybe it’s because I’m an Oregonian, I never throw out substantial food and always take home leftovers. Why shouldn’t someone eat remaining supersized portions getting tossed out? On the other hand, have some dignity, man. James enjoyed the novelty and went and found this guy and his comrades hanging out down the street and gave him the last quarter cup of his Coke Zero. “Thanks!” was the genuine reply.

I’m still torn on this practice because in Portland so many are destitute by choice. In fact, there’s an entire culture of scrounging at the Reed College cafeteria, a university that costs $39,440 per year.

Carl’s Jr. * 508 SW Taylor St., Portland, OR

Shake Shack

Did I love it? Yes, I did and plan to tackle the outdoor location now that Fall weather is creeping up and I'm becoming zen about insufferable lines.

It’s one thing to say you’ve never eaten at Masa, many haven’t, but it’s quite another to admit you’ve never been to Shake Shack. I’m line-phobic, I’m sorry. And I still haven’t braved the Madison Square Park trauma. It just happened that I was unexpectedly dispatched to the Upper West Side on a Saturday afternoon.

Try Gus and Gabriel because it’s new? Kefi, which has always sounded vaguely interesting but is just too far? I’ve already tried the uptown Fatty Crab. It had to be Shake Shack.

Now that the weather has become balmy and manageable, that brief painful humid spurt already seems like the distant past. I wouldn’t say that 90-degree, sauna-like conditions are optimal for double cheeseburgers. But all went smoothly, even during prime time, we didn’t wait more than ten minutes for food and were able to snag a table inside.

My bun literally disintegrated from the hot air trapped in the waxed wrapper combined with the heat from my hands. The tall layered sandwich began to meld into one squished mass on the end where I was holding it. Which isn’t to say that the juicy, melted mess wasn’t tasty, I just had to devour the burger faster than normal because it was falling apart before my eyes. Seasonings and any subtleties of flavor were lost, no time for pondering patties.

And because that wasn’t enough molten gooeyness, we ordered cheese fries. Once you’ve crossed the line into excess, there’s no sense in retreating. As a fan of processed, bright orange, the thick, mild real cheese sauce was a shock. A good shock, not bland in the way macaroni and cheese can be (I think I’m a rare mac & cheese hater). Now I’m ruined for Nathan’s cheese fries.

If I had any doubts as to whether Shake Shack qualified as a chain, they have been quelled. Seven new overseas branches are planned for Saudi Arabia and Dubai. Maybe they can make lamb burgers.

Shake Shack * 366 Columbus Ave., New York, NY

Red Robin

Despite being a Northwest chain, I don’t think I’ve eaten at a Red Robin more than once and nearly two decades ago. I have only a vague youthful memory of restaurant, and the nagging feeling that I perceived it as upscale. I’m not sure if that says more about Oregon or me.

I keep seeing their TV ads and just like with Sonic’s commercials, I instantly feel compelled to look up just where these non-NYC chains exist in these parts.  New Jersey, of course. I figured I could squeeze in a visit while scoping out the Norma Kamali collection at Wal-Mart (kind of eh, but I enjoy being a L instead of an XL at Wal-Mart. Oh, just figured out that I'm now a L by most chain store standards--guess my sugar/starch limiting has finally paid off. Unfortunately, "bottomless fries" will show up later in this missive) and picking up hair darkening shampoo and conditioner at Menlo Park Mall’s Aveda (I overheard the cashier mention her food court break at Chick-fil-A. I totally would’ve gone if Red Robin wasn’t already on my itinerary. Even she knew about the “hidden” NYU cafeteria Chick-fil-A).

James wanted to go to Five Guys, but what’s the fun in that? We can walk to the one in Brooklyn Heights if we wanted. No, I’d rather spend $20 in tolls and drive 34 miles to find out that frankly, even a well-done Five Guys burger is kind of preferable to Red Robin’s “gourmet burgers” cooked to an internal temperature of your choice.

It wasn’t so much the food, but the inept service and overall Saturday night suburban mayhem that detracted. Yes, I have standards even for chain restaurants.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the we card if you look under 39 1/ 2 deal. I don’t think they were joking, but I still chortled when asked for my ID and being pointed at the button stating just that pinned to our server’s (who’d just turned 21, we were informed for no reason) shirt. Like if I’m going to illegally purchase drinks, I’m heading to a NJ Red Robin. I know they’re just doing what they’re told, and maybe I should’ve been more weirded out that the bartender who barely looked out of middle-school didn’t card me earlier. I like to believe I don’t look 40+ even to someone half my age.

 We took cues from the locals and ordered the onion ring appetizer, which is admittedly kind of an odd starter. And it practically became a dessert since we weren’t brought our tower until asking about it after we’d received our burgers. This is the glitch that soured me. I don’t think it’s petty to have a separation between courses whether that is onion rings on a pole served with dipping sauces and a jalapeno laden burger or prawns with sunchoke puree and garlic confit and grass fed burger with Cotswold cheese (the same timing issue bothered me at James in Prospect Heights a few months ago).

I’m tempted to declare chipotle sauce (mayo) the new ranch but it appears that America is embracing the two equally, together. Both came with these onion rings. And the combo isn’t exactly new to Frito-Lay or Rachael Ray, for that matter.

I’m not one who rambles on about fat percentages or meat blend ratios, but I will say that lately I’ve swung into the less is more camp. If you can’t even taste the meat in your burger, then what’s the point? There was a bit too much going on in this 5 Alarm Burger, which was more than obvious from the name. All the lettuce, jalapeños, salsa and tomatoes overwhelmed and I couldn’t even detect the pepperjack cheese even though I could see it. Really, I was more interested in the fries and onion rings and consequently grew too full too quickly to eat more than a third of this. Beer and starch has a way of doing that.

The thick cut fries sprinkled with their trademark seasoning (that also sits in a big plastic shaker on the table) were tasty enough that I ate most of them, but I’d much prefer a thin crispy fry to a fat meaty one. I think they make them hearty on purpose to eliminate anyone actually taking them up on their bottomless fry promise. Yes, you heard that right--all-you-can-eat fries.

Red Robin * 6200 Hadley Rd., South Plainfield, NJ

T.G.I. Friday's

You can’t properly entertain a sister who has lived outside the U.S. for over a decade without at least one pit stop at a chain restaurant. Never mind that they have a T.G. I. Friday’s in Bristol, things are best experienced in their natural habitats.

We’d spent a killer day trolling around Bear Mountain (I had to squeeze in a bit of nature to appease the outdoorsiness in my sister and her husband. Some would argue that paved trails aren’t exactly super natural but that’s as rough as I get) and Woodbury Common (where I'd already been to the on-site Applebee's enough times). All that cold weather open air outlet shopping really works up an appetite.

The best part of Bear Mountain were the zillions of '60s-seeming educational signs dotting the park. 

Of course, not enough of an appetite to finish an appetizer and entrée (let alone dessert too, though I was pleased to see they were offering the three courses for $12.99 promotion which probably doesn’t exist in NYC). But that’s not the point. James and I know the excess game--that’s what take out containers are for. Despite not being truly European, British are freaked out by leftovers.

While dwelling on our monstrous portions and Japanese hara hachi bu (wise, certainly. But if I stopped at 80% full, I would never get past the appetizer course) we ordered pink fruity cocktails like the Cosmo ‘Rita. Minor trouble erupted when our waitress asked for ID, “My manager makes me card everyone under 40.” and neither out-of-towner had any on them.

I started having flashbacks to my 22nd birthday with my dad and stepmom at a place called BJ’s Roadhouse. It wasn't my choice (while chain loving now as an adult, I couldn’t see the humor in the early ‘90s). I hadn’t brought my driver’s license and they wouldn’t serve me beer, not even an O’Doul’s, which I didn’t want anyway. These annual occasions were tough enough to slog through with a few drinks in your system.

I’m fairly certain this was the same birthday where we stopped at a grocery store afterwards and picked up a watermelon (I’ve hated melon since birth) and a sugar free cherry pie. I mean, it was my birthday and I could produce insulin normally so would it kill them to buy a real dessert? (technically yes, but diabetes wouldn’t my render my father a fatal blow for another ten years)

Thankfully, we looked old and haggard enough to have the ridiculous rule waived at T.G.I. Friday’s.

Nachos on the half shell. They evoke traditional topping on individual chip rather than pile of toppings on slew of chips, yet these aren’t chips.

Yeah, I noticed that cheesy bacon cheeseburger was separate from the regular cheeseburger but I didn’t read the fine print. The cheesy was cheesy alright. A whole half-inch round of breaded and fried provolone was sitting atop the patty. Whoa. I should’ve taken a cross section photo but I was in a state of shock. It almost looks like a chicken sandwich from this angle.

We passed on the Cinnabon cheesecake and picked up a dozen doughnuts at Dunkin’ across the parking lot (I’m not a doughnut-crazed person, but British folks seem to like them because they don’t really exist in the U.K.), then called it a night.

The next morning I arose to find a note from my sister left on the dining room table. “Dave is afraid of the leftovers; you can have them.” Oh, foreigners…there’s nothing to fear. Even our cheerful waitress told us that the gooey spinach artichoke dip could be brought back to life in the microwave.

I did wait until later that evening, after I had a few drinks in my system (and the brother-in-law had gone to bed) but you know that I devoured that second-hand hot Tuscan dip and red corn tortilla chips along with the help of my sister. We re-warmed the deep-fried breadsticks we’d brought home too. Anything else would be un-American.

T.G.I.Friday’s * 5 Centre Dr., Central Valley, NY

IHOP

Suburban excursions are not always blissful. I couldn’t bear attempting a Swedish meatball combo plate at a busier-than-expected Ikea on Martin Luther King Day. I know better than to patronize the always under stocked Elizabeth, NJ location and don’t even want to ponder the potential beastliness of the soon-to-open walking distance Red Hook branch. Part of me even hopes the neighborhood Trader Joe’s never happens.

Breakfast for lunch (no, not brunch) at Staten Island’s IHOP (contrary to popular belief, there are IHOPS in NYC, six in total randomly scattered throughout four boroughs) was far less life changing than I’d hoped for.

The commercials always entice me with fluff, sweetness and starchy goodness but my stuffed french toast was a waste of fat and calories. The syrupy strawberries were sweet and that’s where all flavor ceased to exist. I don’t know how it’s possible to make grilled egg-coated bread and cream cheese filling taste like chewy nothingness but they did it. I requested no whipped cream and I don’t imagine the non-dairy spray topping could’ve helped matters any.

 

The eggs and bacon that made up the Stuffed French Toast Combo (I have enough making my mouth say Sammie—there’s no way I’m ordering the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity) were adequate (more like adequite, if you ask me) yet the hash browns fell into the potatoes stripped of all potato-ness category.

I was more interested in the disproportionately Italian desserts being advertised. I can’t imagine all menus in the U.S. have tartufo, spumoni, cannoli and neopolitan ice cream. There’s no mention of any of these treats on their website. I guess if Brooklyn Applebee’s can serve Cakeman Raven red velvet cake, the Staten Island IHOP shouldn’t shy away from micro-regional tastes either. I would definitely take the red velvet cake over any of IHOP’s goodies, though in my opinion blue velvet cake is prettier in its garishness.

IHOP * 935 Richmond Ave., Staten Island, NY

Fuddruckers

Even though I have an irrational fascination with chains (yesterday on my way to see Cloverfield in Astoria I noticed a brand new Panera Bread and Applebee's set to grand open tomorrow. Along with the pre-existing Pizzeria Uno across the street, this micro-suburbia off Northern Blvd. is simultaneously soothing and baffling), Fuddruckers has never been part of my repertoire.

To my recollection, I'd only dined at one once in my life, at least twenty-five years ago. I know I was wowed by all the diy condiments, and I believe that I begged for a repeat performance whenever driving past the 82nd Street location on route to Clackamas Town Center. But I could just be imagining the longing and letdown because this was a common routine; my family rarely ate out, which was more a standard of the times than a commitment to thriftiness. I really don't think that children raised pre-'90s went out to eat, fast food included, frequently as they do now.

So, Saturday night Fuddruckers in Bridgewater was an accident (that we would drive 45 miles and spend $15 in tolls to return a defective mail-ordered Best Buy Dust Devil is a testament to how much NYC box stores suck). Red Lobster was our intended target, but even I can't justify a 75-minute wait for Cheddar Bay biscuits. Just on the other side of the Red Bull Motel (do you think they petitioned for another Red business in their parking lot?) was Fuddruckers, a total mystery to me.

I didn't know the menu and I completely didn't understand the ordering process. I felt feeble-minded standing just shy of the line-up maze, gaping at the wall. The clatter, balloons and children (don't be fooled by the false calmness in the above photo) didn't help my decision making but I figured out that there are lots of things other than burgers but it would be ridiculous to try them on a maiden visit and that burgers come in combo meals with the specialty variations  listed on another panel.

Ok, I chose The Inferno, a 1/3-pounder with jalapenos, fried onions and pepper jack. And a Heineken because even though Fuddruckers is fast food-like, they do serve beer. I guess that makes it more fast-casual, in industry parlance. I was not allowed my requested medium-rare, medium is the needlessly strict minimum, though not as harsh as Five Guys well-done only rule.

You then get a beeper and are left to hunt down an open table. After settling for about ten minutes later you'll be summoned to the side counter, handed your food and set loose on the condiments.  I took a few pumps of nacho cheese, chipotle mayonnaise for my fries and added a smear of spicy bbq sauces to my burger. I'm fairly sparing with add ons.

Yet condiment-abusers abounded. I was disproportionately grossed out by a college aged girl with her family at a nearby table who overfilled two giant plastic containers (larger than the little ones everyone else had) with ketchup. Actually, I more grossed out by her scrunchy-tamed pontytail, sweats and sporty rubber slip on sandals. I have a violent inexplicable aversion to that half-athletic/half-schlubby look. These are the same girls who wear flannel pajama bottoms with cartoon characters on them in public and think fleece is dressy. I had to avert my eyes every time she went for a ketchup dip.

After I got over the perceived sloppiness and topping spillage, I was faced with a pretty good burger that held its shape and retained enough juiciness despite the longer cooking time. The peppers were surprisingly hot, hence The Inferno moniker. The fries fell into the mealy steak fry camp, which I'll certainly eat even though I prefer thin, crispy strips (but not shoestring) over hefty wedges.

It was satisfying without crossing over into monstrous territory (though they do offer a one-pound burger). I do fear the Baconators of the world. On that note, Portfolio just published a substantial article and interesting sidebars on the unabashed gluttony trend touted in particular by Carl Jr's and Hardee's. Knowing that the Double Six Dollar Burger contains around 95% of my recommended daily calories almost makes me want to try it, so clearly their backwards marketing works.

Fuddruckers * 1271 Route 22 W., Bridgewater, New Jersey

Quiznos

The Quiznos in the parking lot of Linden New Jersey’s Aviation Plaza shopping center is the only one I’ve ever been to, and three times now. I work across the street from one and never go. This shopping center off Route 1 has become my go-to weekend destination for important destinations like Target, Old Navy, Marshall’s, Home Depot, a 24-hour Shop Rite (I like grocery shopping post 10pm), not so much the Polish and Slavic Credit Union or Avenue, but I was excited to find Applejack at Pied Piper Liquors—none of the shops in my immediate neighborhood sell it. And we persist in doing a bulk of our shopping out this way even though it costs a ridiculous $15 in tolls (the west coaster in me still can’t fathom such nonsense) to go through Staten Island into Union County.

And I found myself at Quiznos again this weekend because it was 5pm, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet (that’s what happens when you get out of bed at noon) and was starving but didn’t want to ruin my appetite because Sichuan food in Flushing was going to happen around 8:30pm. Applebee’s, Chevy’s and Boulder Steakhouse were out of the question; this was the perfect opportunity to try one of those two-dollar, despicably named Flatbread Sammies I saw advertised on TV last week. Yes, advertising works on me.

This is the Bistro Steak Melt, much flatter and less stuffed than the promotional shots. They’re not bad, though a little mixed up, using flatbread, meat, mozzarella, peppercorn sauce and what seems to be salsa. Middle Eastern? Mexican? I guess that’s wholly American. I don’t believe that they are terribly healthy but for something small and cheap to supplement my brought-from-home apple and yogurt it beats the $3.85 half-sandwich at Pret a Manger. (11/18/07)