Once, when my grandfather was visiting from Chicago, he asked teenage me if there was any good Greek food around. A Los Angeles native, I was rarely accused of a having a multiculturally ignorant palette, but this question confused me. Greek? You mean like Zeus and Socrates? What the hell is modern Greek food? It wasn’t until my grandfather clarified his question with the term “Mediterranean” that I understood what he meant, that I’d been eating so-called Greek food all my life without knowing it.

Los Angeles and San Diego aren’t known for their arrays of good Greek restaurants; Southern California is not Chicago or Queens. Still, it’s an international landscape, and there are many cafes that offer menus with pita sandwiches, tahini sauce and spanakopita. That their debatable Greekness hides behind such terms as “Mediterranean” or “European” on their storefronts is the product of geopolitics, and, well, so was my ignorance.

It reminds me of visiting Chicago, where my cousins took me to a Korean restaurant, and I opened the menu to find sushi, chow mein and the gamut of Pan-asianness. Mediterranean cafes in Los Angeles might be Greek restaurants in essence, but some throw in other European and Middle Eastern items, too, which always reminds me of when Jerry told Babu Bhatt that he’d do better to turn The Dream Café into a strictly Pakistani restaurant.

I realize that, like Babu, most immigrant families care more about running a successful business than the ideal of cultural purity. Let the American-dreaming restaurateurs put whatever they want on the menu; maybe people would rather choose from a larger sampling of geographic tastes at The Dream Café than only Pakistani fare. Maybe the restaurant is surrounded by a stubborn white American population that collectively fears everything that doesn’t resemble a Stouffer’s TV dinner. Nick Papadakis knew what he was doing when he opened that diner outside of Los Angeles; after all, he was killed for it in The Postman Always Rings Twice. And if you’re a Greek immigrant family in Detroit able to make a fortune selling hot dogs named after a part of New York, all power to you.

Immigrants opening up American-style eateries is old news. Diners have low start-up costs and democratic appeal. Besides, there’s nothing strange about Greek-Americans serving American food, just as there’s nothing strange about Greek-Americans serving Greek food. When Lewis and Clark found the East-to-Northwest passage, it was only a matter of time until the Pacific Coast had a few Greek-run American diners. Or Mediterranean cafes. Or European delis.

Here’s my problem. Let’s say you’re a Greek immigrant family and you open a fast food diner called Canada Steak Burger in Normal Heights, San Diego. Your menu is half American diner food and half Greek food. Sometimes, there is overlap. For instance, you serve hot dogs in pita bread and hamburgers with a choice of gyro meat or bacon. You have no decor in your restaurant that calls up memories of Canadian culture. There is no giant Canadian population in Southern California that you’re trying to entice with your eatery’s name. You don’t even offer Canadian bacon for your burgers… Why are you called Canada Steak Burger!?

Speaking of bacon, Mele and I recently welcomed beef and pork back into our diet after nine months. When you go vegetarian as often as I do, you become very familiar with the cravings that arise from so much selective fasting. For instance, when I’m not eating eggs or fish, there’s nothing I crave more in the world than egg salad. When I’m not eating chicken or turkey, I cannot wait to have a bucket full of fried drumsticks and thighs. When I’m still red-meat-free, there is a crescendo of need for rare steak, and above all else, a charbroiled hamburger.

I’ve had a few burgers since, but Canada’s steakburger is the champion thus far. The patty itself is a healthy eight ounces, pink on the inside, and charbroiled to the perfection that is the taste of fire, smoke and cow. In my stubborn hamburger philosophy, this is the only way a burger should taste, like a fourth of July barbecue offered 365 days a year. Add some suspiciously processed lamb and the usual vegetables and condiments, and you’ve got some darn good Greek-American luncheonette fare. Add the name Canada Steak Burger, which I admittedly love, and you’ve got a great burger joint.

A couple miles down University Ave is Western Steakburger. Like Canada Burger, Western Steakburger is Greek-run, features a menu that juxtaposes patty melts with spanakopita, and takes its name from something that is wholeheartedly not Greek. At Western Steakburger, the word “Western” is more than just nomenclature. Inside the cafe, a cardboard cut out of John Wayne greets you with a shotgun and images of The Duke surround the walls in cheap picture frames. On the wall across from the counter, a portrait of the owner’s family hangs right next to a painted medley of Clint Eastwood’s western roles. Plus, there’s BBQ on the menu.

Like Canada’s steakburger, Western’s steakburger is covered in gyro meat, but unlike Canada Burger, Western’s patty is cooked to death. The blackened edges still give it that wonderful charbroiled flavor at first bite, but an overcooked burger patty is a sad and futile endeavor. Some fast food places cover up dryness with extra grease, but Western Steakburger’s only savior is the gyro meat, and that just isn’t enough. Considering that the pork ribs are also a study in tastelessness, I have to conclude, in the parameters offered by this analogy, Canada is most definitely better than the Wild West – though I’m really not sure if I can give Canada any credit for this.

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This entry was posted on Friday, December 11th, 2009 at 9:29 am and is filed under San Diego.