Walking through the ground floor chambers of Le Parker Meridian is an exercise in luxury. Each room, exquisitely marbled from top to bottom, houses armchairs more expensive than my monthly rent and chandeliers that replace “let there by light” with the more fashionable “let there be ambience.” The foyer is a cocktail bar. The Hallway is a foyer. Neatly dressed attendants stand attentively at every corner, and hotel guests use their Midtown voices.

When I reached the heart of the Meridian’s lobby, an unmistakable scent fluttered across my path. A quick glance showed me the bar I had just walked through, the check-in lines and bellhops in the next room over and Norma’s restaurant across the floor. Just as I was telling myself that the fragrance of freshly grilled ground beef couldn’t possibly be coming from a restaurant that glowing and spotless, I noticed a mysteriously large velvet curtain draped around the corner behind the registration counter. If not for the smattering of New Yorkers lined up against its burgundy folds, stumbling upon this scene might have felt like coming across the cutting room of Twin Peaks. At the edge of the curtain, tucked into a darkened crook above the head of the line, was a small neon sign in the shape of a hamburger.

Trespassing across this threshold landed me in New York City’s cherished Burger Joint. At first, the moderately packed, minimally furnished space seemed a relief from the elegant overdose of Le Meridian. Diners occupied simple wooden booths and tables, all centered around a classically shaped fast-food counter and grill. The aromas of smoke and grease filled this cozy dining room, infusing the atmosphere with a sense of homegrown authenticity and memories of decidedly non-New York dining. Posters and hand-made signs dotted the walls, instructing customers on how to order and when to come back for seconds. Upon placing my order I was asked once for my name and left to prowl for an open seat.

Minutes later, my name was called out, and my lunch, bundled in white butcher paper, was handed to me over the counter. I unwrapped the simple parcel to reveal a simple burger, cooked medium rare. Burger Joint had clearly done their homework: The hefty-but-not-monstrous beef patty was very well packed, grilled slightly in favor of rare, and saturated with a smoky flavor that lingered on the palate after each bite. The pale leaf of iceberg and nondescript slice of beefsteak tomato complemented the matter-of-fact beef and fluffy, store-bought bun as everything you would expect at a bona fide burger joint or a family cookout. This was a truly juicy icon of the burgin’ faith.

As I made my way through the burger, however, the illusion began to slip from my senses. I took another look around and noticed the details of the decor: a “Heroes” promotional poster was followed by “Indiana Jones and the Legend of the Crystal Skull,” posted alongside a stock second-era blowup of the Ramones. These tossed off splashes of popular culture continued their dance all the way around the dining room, ironically revealing in their placement just how carefully this “joint” had been planned. New York has a way of packaging “home” as a commodity and pricing it as a special occasion, and this meal, planted in the heart of Midtown Manhattan and shrouded by perfectly articulated mystique on the grounds of one of the neighborhood’s prominent luxury hotels, was, in fact, an illusion. It was a tasty illusion but an illusion all the same- after all, I don’t remember having ever paid $7 for a burger grilled in my backyard.

I took another bite of my burger, but the juices ran bland. Its lack of seasoning became apparent, and the traces of smoke struggled to buoy the patty’s heavy-handed plainness. The trimmings that moments ago seemed so rustic wilted slightly as the hamburger’s own homemade virtues were undone by its own meta-cultural dressing. The joy of that first taste vanished into the realization that Burger Joint was at heart no different from Norma’s, despite its brilliantly orchestrated attempt to represent the restaurant’s ideal opposite. I took my lesson in New York dining with my final bite and walked out the sliding doors of Le Meridian with thoughts of Lucky Boy and Dale Cooper on my mind.

Burger Joint
118 W. 57th St
New York, NY 10019
212.708.7414

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 17th, 2009 at 5:21 am and is filed under New York.