Roger's Custom Burgers

The constant monotony of it all nearly forced me to retire. My name is Roger Ben Thomason and for close to twenty years I ran a burger joint in San Francisco. We remodeled and renamed it a few times but couldn't shake off the bad reviews. Orders being the same or similar for years didn’t help either. No onions, plain no ketchup, even burgers on wheat to be healthier. Just boring. The problem was that in those last fifteen years I had to downsize to three types of burgers, fries and drinks. 

1. Hamburgers 
2. Cheeseburgers
3. Turkey burgers.

Don’t get me wrong, they were good, reviews argued that. But there wasn’t any variety. No pizazz. No panache. I still felt I had more to give. Thing is it all snowballed with that first real review, one bad review, just one. I’ve, we’ve, been demoted to simplicity. Make one critic sick from an ingredient you bought from a local farmer’s market and you’re either closed for good or you do what you can until you cut down to a three item burger menu. 

It took years of community outreach, half-priced food for local sporting events, food shelters, even dog shelters and we’ve barely managed to carve a loyal following. But, we’re alive and we’re open, thank god. Except, no more experiments. No more, out of the left field orders. Critics, foodies, and influencers all stuck to the usual. No variety. Dull as dishwater. I’m not complaining or anything, I mean, I put my kids through college with my burgers. I retook my vows with my wife. I even bought a house on the hills that I can leave to my grandkids. But it was boring. God awful boredom. The same orders ringing in. 

No onions, extra cheese, plain. Something had to give. One day it happened. The order that changed everything. A man in a brown fedora and a smile that made my waitress blush like she met a movie star walked in casually one day. She took his order and read it off to me and my team. We were readying the griddle with patties and cheese, but then she kept talking. 

“One double cheeseburger, extra lettuce, medium rare, grilled onions, add mushrooms, add bacon and a fried egg, cut in half with toasted buns, tomato on the side. Also some onion rings.” 

The kitchen froze. 

“What?” 

She looked back at him then back to me. 

“And an iced tea.” 

She smiled and looked back at him. 

“Y-you can’t be serious.” I checked the calendar to see if I wasn’t being pranked. May 3rd. No pranks.

I told her to check with Mr. Fedora to see if she got that order correct. She brought him his tea. They chatted for a minute. Walked back, confirmed, then went back to him. 

I had no choice, right? 

“He’s a Critic.” I told my team. 

They agreed. He's a Critic. She walked back and clarified one thing. 

“Oh also pepper jack cheese please, he really likes pepper jack.” She blushed, I nodded. No more words, time for action.  

My team got the onion rings ready. While I diced the mushrooms. Cut the lettuce. Grilled the onions and bacon. Cracked an egg and threw the buns on the griddle. Sliced pepper jack and plated the tomato on the side. In less than 10 minutes I was staring at a feast made for a King. 

“Order up!” I said with excitement. 

She brought him his plate. He rubbed his hands and began to chow down. It felt like time stopped while he ate. 

“Is this for real?” I asked myself. 

People around were sitting and chatting. Dozens more swarmed in and sat down deciding on their orders. It was like everyone was waiting for him to finish. 15 minutes later, he was done and time started up again. Orders started flooding in. 

“What’s he having?” I heard on the floor.

“I’ll have that.” Customers ordered.

Somehow everyone who walked past him wanted a taste of what he had. A fried egg here, extra crispy bacon on top, turkey bacon on the side. Two patties, one piece of cheese. Half of the orders wanted to be cut in half. 

“Who is he?” I asked myself walking over to him. I noticed smartphones out to take posts. Reviews started coming back in again. 

“Excuse me.” I said as I cleared my throat. 

He looked up at me with a smile. I understood why my waitress blushed. 

“Hey there. That was incredible.” He shook my hand. 

“You liked it? I’m glad. I don’t get interesting orders like that anymore.” He didn’t understand, as he looked around seeing orders similar to his and laughed. 

“Best burger around. The kind that goes down in history. You’re a true meat artist.” He was eloquent with his words. 

“I do have a question for you. I have a small party coming up and I live close by. I want you to personally cook for the occasion? I’ll pay any price.” 

I respectfully rejected the offer. What could I have said?

“No problem. I understand. Truly delicious burgers. Can I get the check?” I nodded and left thinking of his offer. Without realizing it, a real Critic walked in. I didn't pay attention to my waitress who mentioned it. I just kept sticking my head up to see his brown fedora sitting on the table waiting for the check. Every order felt different until he left. Good times don’t last. One of the orders that came through was simple with one caveat ‘no cheese’. I didn’t notice it. Less than 5 minutes later that order was passed onto a critic. We closed early that day. I took my eye off the ball, again.

“Such a simple order that could’ve been worse if I paid more. Vapid. Bland. Ordinary. But, people seem to like it. 2 out of 5 stars.” That review was from BestInTheCityReviews.com. 

The next few weeks had its ups and downs. Some days were empty, some had a half-full. No brown fedora. No Critics. Boredom hit again. A month went by before Mr. Fedora came back with a similar order and just like before a crowd followed him. Order after order, something new, something different. The energy was different. The energy from the kitchen was different. And like before I walked over to him and asked how the food was. Again he smiled and told me it was great. 

“Never had a better burger, always a pleasure to be around a master.” His words felt comforting, sincere. Again, he asked me, again, I rejected the offer but this time he explained. 

“I want to apologize. The last time I asked you to cook was a lie. I’m having a go-away party and I want to invite you. See, I love sandwiches. The combination of breads, vegetables, spices, sauces and meats are in my personal opinion; life.” I heard the passion his voice. He stopped and looked down at his empty plate then to me. 

“Honestly I’ve had just about every burger around here and no chef has come close to your caliber. I know about the critic reviews and admittedly that’s why I’ve stayed away for so long. But I knew something was different. This place was once called ‘Roger’s Custom Burgers’, right?” I froze.

“I remember seeing you and your wife put up the ‘Now Open’ banner. I remember seeing your kids running around. I remember the first customers. That all changed with that review. Listen, I appreciate you and your food.” He took out his wallet, left a hundred dollar bill and walked out. 

His words felt like they punched my soul. He didn’t know I thought about all those memories. All the nights I spent thinking of new techniques. The days I’d drive the girls to school and open up my restaurant. The arguments with my wife about what should and shouldn’t be on the menu. The nights I cried reading the bad reviews. The days I’d jump for joy reading the good ones. 

My waitress walked over and cleaned the table telling me about orders piling up. I walked back to the kitchen and kept grilling. His words never left me that day. I just cooked and cooked. Nearly a week later he walked back in. He ordered his burger and onion rings, made small talk with the waitress and waited for his food. The room got packed. Orders piled up. He ate his feast for kings. I walked over to him and again with a smile he invited me. 

This time I said, “yes”.

My wife stared at me across the table hearing the whole story. 

“Sweetie it sounds like you're in a rut.” She said. 

“Chelsea, please. I don’t want to have an affair or get a sports car. I’m bored. Everything at the restaurant has been the same for years. Remember when we put up the ‘Now Open’ banner? Or when the girls were running around playing restaurant owner?” I stood up telling her the history of the restaurant, a history she knew full well. 

“So you took a half day to have dinner with a man who loves your food?” It sounded silly when she said it but yes. 

“That man could be crazy.”

I tried to explain that he wasn’t but I didn’t even know his name.  

“What about the restaurant?” 

This I could explain. 

“My guys don’t need me to babysit them.” 

“Okay. What time?” 

I kissed her.

She got up and got ready. I did the same but not with clothes. I got my knives together with a bag of ingredients. Spices and a block of pepper jack cheese and two pounds of premium ground beef. First my wife and I got to the restaurant before we left for the party. Empty again. She rubbed my shoulders. I checked the kitchen. 

“Keep things simple. You’re on your own tonight.” They looked at each other then back to me.

“Don’t burn the place down.” We all laughed but I was nervous thinking of the party. 

“I’ll be back later to help close.” 

As we left a group of teenagers showed up. Behind them was another group of customers. One of them looked familiar but I was focused on the party. We arrived at the fancy house of Mr. Fedora. He opened the door to an ironically simplistic interior and invited us in. He introduced us to his wife and a few of his friends.

“Everyone, this is Roger. Owner and proprietor of the best burgers in the city.” 

It was a small but friendly party. They offered us wine and snacks before Mr. Fedora walked me to his kitchen. 

“Wow.” I exclaimed.

“Nice isn’t it?” 

“You created a restaurant kitchen in your own house. Yes, very nice.” I snapped back to reality and put my wares down. 

“Let’s get started.” He threw me an apron and put one on himself.

“Tell me. When’d you get started cooking?” He turned on the griddle before he grabbed some vegetables from the walk-in fridge. 

“My mother was a street food vendor down on Main street when I was a boy.” I felt almost ashamed. 

“Amazing. I’m sure she was beloved by her customers. What kind of food was it?” I handed him the premium ground beef, he examined the beef with a smile before making patties. 

“Burgers. The only woman to do it at the time.” I told him with pride. 

He let out a loud horselaugh and out of cheer I laughed along with him. 

I silenced my phone earlier and didn’t notice the phone calls or the text messages I was getting. The person that looked familiar was the Critic that got sick from years ago. The teenagers were getting rowdy. Nothing out of the ordinary for teens but the Critic hated it, his food less. 

“Shut up!” He told them.

The Critic called my waitress over to complain and have her quiet them down. She was kind about it but it's a big mistake to try to get teenagers to act like normal human beings. To stick it to my team and Critic, the teens ran out on the check laughing and cursing at him. Because of the commotion one of my guys started a grease fire.

“Why sandwiches?” I asked while grilling the burgers. He cut up the vegetables before slicing the bread and cheese. 

“It’s the perfect food. Now I’m not gonna say it’s got your meats, your veggies, your dairies. That’s redundant. Of course it does but It’s not about nutrition. It’s about deliciousness. Choice. Desire for what you want and to hell with the consequences. No one ever got fit eating sandwiches. Elvis had a special sandwich. Every single culture in history has had a sandwich. Each is unique. Each is either simple or complex. Either way it’s bread and meat, or whatever you want to put between. It’s synchronicity in food. Does that make sense? Or am I babbling?” Mr. Fedora said, walking into his fridge to grab pickles. 

I cut up onions for the onion rings and breaded them as needed mulling over his words. 

“And the burger?” 

He looked at me and smiled. 

“Same thing. It’s a sandwich. It’s the best kind of sandwich or at least top of the list of sandwich varieties. It’s cooked meat with crisp vegetables. Maybe bacon. Maybe an egg. Or bbq sauce with onion rings. Or just plain. It’s when you put your heart into it that it becomes something more.” 

I stopped and took in those words.

“It’s when you love what you do does it all seem worthwhile.” 

Hearing his words I thought of my mom.

Back at the restaurant the grease fire began to spread. 

“Fire!” The Critic cried out. 

Another one of my guys threw water to try to put it out. Maybe they did need babysitting.

“Someone call 911!” The waitress screamed. 

The ambulances, fire department, and police showed up clearing everyone out of the restaurant in minutes. I had about a dozen missed calls but I was none the wiser. 3 cups of wine and a philosophical conversation about bread and all its purposes, distracted me. I didn’t notice out the window a cloud of smoke in the distance. The Critic wrote his review on his phone about the rowdy teenagers, abysmal service, the food, even the fire, posting it up online for the world to read. He even added some photos of the fire department putting it out. 

“I risk my stomach. Not my life for these reviews. Close it down!” The review read. “Zero. Stars.”

I thanked Mr. Fedora for the burgers, laughs, and lessons. He thanked me for helping him realize that ‘sandwich ideology’ isn’t bull. I shook his hand and left. My wife had a great time too. We swung hands walking out like we were in our 20’s again ready to tackle the world with our love. 

“Let’s get back to the restaurant. I have a few ideas.” I told her.

The smell of ash was in the air and the night was still. I stood staring at my life’s work in ruin. My name, my career, all over. 

“What happened?” I asked my team. No one answered. Everyone looked defeated and ashamed. 

I stayed quiet thinking of what to do. 

“Put your heart into it Roger.” I told myself.

“Let’s start again like when we first opened.” Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. 

“It’ll take a few weeks but we’ll reopen.” I walked into my burned restaurant. 

“We can redecorate. Put up new places to sit. Redo the kitchen.” 

My wife walked up behind me and hugged me. 

“Baby you should let it go. You’ve done this for so long. Aren’t you tired?” 

“Give it up and walk away?” I asked her.

I grabbed her hands and kissed them.

“No. We start again, let’s get to work everyone. This is it.”

We remodeled the restaurant after three weeks.

A month after the fire we reopened to a resounding failure, no one wanted to touch our food with a 20 foot pole. I couldn't blame them, my restaurant didn’t look as pretty as before. The walls, although painted, still had that burned look. I went home frustrated every day. Weeks later I decided I was going to close down the restaurant, but I kept trying to figure out how to stay open. I planned out reopening with a new name again. Bringing in a celebrity chef to take over while I hosted. Even changing to a different type of food all together. Sadly, days turned into weeks, which turned into months and eventually I sold the land that later became a dentist office. The money from the sale was good but it wasn’t ever about the money it was about feeding the community. 

What felt like a year of planning and it finally hit me. I immediately drew up plans for a smaller, more efficient kitchen. One on wheels to travel around serving the masses. With the help of my granddaughter I introduced our app. The patty wagon now has my old waitress serving orders at the window. A new team in the kitchen. And the app that takes all the orders, each as customizable as you want. The first stop was as expected. Simple orders. 

Until a man in a blue flat cap, not my guy in a light brown fedora, but close, ordered a completely custom burger. Patty well done, cheddar cheese, onion rings, bbq sauce, bacon, spicy brown mustard spread on a toasted brioche bun with extra pickles. People caught on quick and custom orders started coming in. This was it. 

Order after order I think to myself. Still bored? Not a chance. I’m happy as heck. I never got Mr. Fedora’s name but I’m thankful to him. 

New name. New attitude. New recipes.

“Order up!”