The Almighty Dollar

I didn't want to go out, but I knew I needed to.

By that I mean I needed to get back to interacting with people besides my innermost circle of friends (3 women, with one non-alpha male attached to one of them) even when I don't feel like it (for some time now), but also I needed to go be exposed to something I could learn from (beyond my daily reading) because doing so inevitably makes me feel better.

When I ran into a photographer I know on my way over, she said seeing me headed there meant that it was the place to be tonight. If only she knew how untrue that was these days.

For the past two days, Candela Gallery's exterior has been draped in a giant flag reading, "Puerto Rico is dying," in an effort to remind people that it is day 156 for Puerto Ricans without any return to normalcy. As part of the 3-day event, artist Steven Casanova had illuminated the chandelier he'd made out of a collection of the type of small solar lights that were handed out to islanders with no power.

Even grouped, it wasn't a lot of light. What it was, was a powerful reminder. Ditto the bottled waters handed out to each audience member as the film began playing.  Looking at the bright side, at least we didn't have rolls of paper towels being thrown at us.

Tonight's main event was a screening by the Bijou of "Harvest of an Empire" about the history of Latino immigration to the U.S., beginning with Puerto Rico, although, of course, that's not immigration since they're U.S. citizens.

But it was a good starting point to teach us how the U.S. meddles in the affairs of other countries, always for financial gains, and once the country is destabilized, people flee it for opportunities or asylum here.

I needed to be reminded that Mexico once extended as far north as California and Utah and that while we were technically two countries, it was very much one economy and we desperately needed the labor supplied by Mexico. Or we did until the economy went south and then those workers were easily expendable. And re-hirable at our convenience.

The filmmakers methodically showed how our government had used greed to motivate meddling in the governments of El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Mexico, moves that drove thousands of people to flee brutal wars and regimes and land here.

Where the movie shone was in using accomplished immigrants - a Pulitzer prize winner, a brain surgeon, renowned writers and musicians, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Geraldo Rivera - to explain their path here. What came through time and time again was how many immigrants fought for this country, were dedicated employees for decades and raised children here to give them a better life.

No one expected a handout, but they did hope for a chance.

Learning all this history was disturbing enough - old colonial habits die hard - but then there's the other side of the coin that we're dealing with today. If it's our government's fault that life in these countries has become intolerable, shouldn't we have a moral obligation to accept people trying to flee it?

I can't hear you, immigrant haters. How can we turn our backs on people who are suffering because of our unlawful actions in their country?

Turns out I didn't get a whole lot of social interaction after all. But I did go out, I chatted with a few familiar faces and I learned a lot.

It's not progress exactly, but I am trying.

Won't You Smile a While for Me?

Yesterday's escape to the river was enough to make me forego poetry.

My Tuesday evening plan had been to go to Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia, an event I always look forward to.

The only problem was that it was still 82 degrees when I got home from my road trip and I couldn't bear the thought of being inside while all that summer-like warmth was still outside.

I laid out a Plan B and my fellow poetry-lover was gracious enough to agree to a change in plans.

The river it was, albeit the James this time, by way of my favorite waterfront stopover, the Lilly Pad. Expecting it to be mobbed on such a gorgeous evening, we found only one large table celebrating a birthday, complete with balloons tied to the chairs.

Inside, we inquired what our choices were in white wine and were told, "I have this Chardonnay," as she hauled out a big 1.5 bottle and looked at us expectantly. Well, if that's what the options are, we'd love two glasses of it.

Looking at the chalkboard menu, I gravitated to the adjective adorned "juicy cheeseburger" and since it was also sushi night, the poet chose a spicy roll to round out our pan Asian-American meal.

Back outside, we headed straight for the coveted glider table closest to the river, aiming for the most distance from the raucous birthday celebrants and the best views of the goings-on near the water.

Boaters were pulling their boats out of the river and a couple of small crafts were still making their way along the dock. On the other side were what looked like a couple of houseboats with the blue light of TV screens glowing from within and the occasional occupant on the upper deck.

It must be an interesting life living on a houseboat. I met a woman a couple of years ago who had a house in Urbanna but chose to live on a houseboat at the end of her dock rather than in the house, which is where she let her guests stay when she had visitors.

Touring the boat with her, I couldn't help but be impressed with what an efficient use of space it was while they still had everything they needed. She was a talented cook who whipped up elaborate meals on the boat every night for her husband after a liberal happy hour on the deck above first. It sounded like a pretty good life to me.

For all I knew, some of those houseboat residents we were looking at were doing the same.

After polishing of the (juicy) cheeseburger and spicy roll, we wasted time gliding in the warm night air and watching new arrivals - a couple who surprisingly chose to eat inside, a biker who arrived on a chopper and then walked around to get feeling back in his legs before going in - help populate the place.

I know it's October, but I was still surprised that more people hadn't been lured down to the river on this beautiful evening like we had.

The only problem with the Lily Pad is how early it closes, so we stopped on the way back to the city for a nightcap at the Checkered Flag, a place I knew I was going to like as soon as I approached the door and could hear the jukebox playing "Me and Mrs. Jones."

Inside, we were welcomed warmly and a couple gave up their stools to go play video bowling so we could sit down.

The bartender, affable, welcoming and attentive, looked pleased as punch when I asked for 1800. "I got a bottle already in the freezer, honey" she said, beaming. After asking us our names, she used them every time she addressed us, as if were old friends.

Turns out her mother owns the bar and it'll become hers in a few more years, something she was clearly looking forward to. So now that we knew her five-year plan, we kind of did qualify as friends. That and when we asked if the kitchen was still open, she went right in the back and perfectly fried up some chicken wings for us.

I was way into the music someone had selected on the jukebox and when it ended, the woman who'd been bowling got up to put more money in, inviting me to join her to make selections while her boyfriend did a quick shot at the bar.

Since it was her money, I didn't want to foist my taste on her, but luckily I didn't have to because she was as big a fan of old-school soul as I am. Between the two of us, we chose Marvin Gay, Four Tops, Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and a bunch of others.

When I asked her what her first concert had been, she didn't hesitate. "Hall and Oates, Three Rivers Stadium, 1987" and then selected "Sara Smile" from the Hall and Oates offerings on the screen.

Not a personal favorite, but it wasn't my money.

Returning to the bar, we chatted with her and her younger boyfriend who didn't recognize a lot of the old R & B we'd chosen. Technically, she was also too young to recognize it but she said her taste reflected her mother's taste and that her mother had been young.

And by young, she meant fourteen.

When you're told such personal facts as that by a stranger, you just take a sip of your 1800 and smile.

With apologies to the Sundays, poetry was not for me tonight.

Better Off Alive

I really couldn't have asked for more interesting men to spend my day with.

After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.

Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.

Score.

We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.

It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.

When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.

Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.

Let's just say I changed my order.

We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.

After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.

Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.

You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.

His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.

As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.

Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.

A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.

It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.

His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."

Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.

You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.

By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.

It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.

See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.

I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the  ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.

Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.

Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.

WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.

Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.

Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.

Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.

Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.

After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.

Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.

The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.

DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.

Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.

Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.

Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.

The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate

Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?

Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.

Grit Fries and Good Vibes

It's the manic/depressive nature of freelancing.

I devote my day to driving to Urbanna, a place I've never been, to interview a woman for a piece I am writing.

Having to do so means I drive on uncrowded roads on a sunny day to the river to spend hours sitting on a couch talking to a happy woman.

She lives with the love of her life and they run a business together.

An avid cook, she blogs about what she cooks for him every night.

And every night, they go to sleep on their houseboat.

Oh, sure, they have a house, but that's for guests...and the six chicks currently living in the living room.

Her charming partner was there because they'd just finished lunch together and he insisted on giving me a brownie from the lunch for my drive home.

Needless to say, it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, hearing another woman's interesting life story.

After we finished, I asked for a suggestion on where to eat lunch.

Leaving the store unlocked, she walked me next door (literally) to what was once a Coca-Cola bottling plant and is now a boutique hotel.

The interior had a New Orleans feel, with a fountain scavenged from the Big Easy and screen door frames (retrofitted with glass), which came from the old John Marshall hotel, of all places.

Best of all, she'd been right; they were still serving lunch despite the late afternoon hour.

Ostra, the restaurant, had only a few customers at that point, but she knew them and introduced me.

One of the servers, upon hearing I was from Richmond, told me she used to live there and still enjoys picking up "Style Weekly" when she visits.

"It makes me feel so in-the-know," she said, even more impressed when she learned I wrote for them

Rather than leave me to my lunch (because she needed to return to their shop next door), she insisted I get my food to go and return to eat it with her.

And she insisted I try the grit fries.

Seeing me scanning the menu, the bartender leaned in and told me that the new chef was from Kansas.

My eyes immediately jumped to the half pound Ostra burger with aioli, Gouda, applewood bacon and port onions on a Kaiser bun.

Surely any Kansas boy worth his salt does a decent burger.

When my food came, I took it next door to eat it while chatting off the record with my former interviewee.

She applauded my choice of beef, saying it was the chef's strength (good guess).

And the grit fries were as delectable as she's promised, with a mixture of goat cheese and grits cut into little cakes and fried up to crispy perfection.

That's the way to teach a Northerner to like grits.

It was girl talk par excellence with a woman who'd been a stranger when I'd walked in four hours earlier.

Great fun.

Driving back towards Richmond, listening to a favorite car mix CD, I basked in how lucky I am to earn my living in a way that allows long talks and late lunches.

So naturally, I walk in to find a message from one of my editors telling me a piece slated for print might get pushed aside and end up online only.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see the results of a two-hour plus interview with an artist end up anywhere people can read it, but I'm also old-school enough to know that some people will never read what I wrote unless it's in print.

Because it's about art. If it were about restaurants, I'd know plenty of people would see it even without the print product.

Ah,well, that's the way the cookie/canvas crumbles.

Being a freelancer means that as long as they pay me the agreed-upon fee, they can run it anywhere they want to.

But I gotta admit, it was just a little bit of a dark cloud on otherwise lovely way to spend a working day.

Good thing I had that brownie to ease the sting a little.

Want a Shake with Those Fries?

Roy's Big Burger delivers so much more.

And on a day when I was craving a quick cheeseburger, I knew I could duck in, eat in my car while reading the Post and be on my way easily.

I've posted before about how it always seems to be men sitting in their cars at Roy's, but today I joined a woman waiting for her order.

Within a minute, a long-haired older guy joined us.

Still, that's the evenest odds (gender-wise) I've ever been a party to at Roy's

But once I had my cheeseburger (all the way) and fries, I made for my car and newspaper, barely getting into my seat before pulling out a fry.

It needed salt.

Opening the car door quickly, I almost ram it into a vehicle pulling suddenly into the space next to me.

But he finally saw me, stopped and I went to grab a salt packet.

Back in my car, it was time to pull out the greasy waxed paper-wrapped burger and feed my blood.

I was holding the good-sized burger with both hands and had just taken a far-from-ladylike bite when the guy from the car next to me walked up.

"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt your lunch," he says smiling and I chew frantically a bite too large for my mouth. "Are you dating anyone?"

I struggle to swallow; he apologizes. "I'm sorry. Is that too forward?"

Yes, I tell him, asking if he always asks out women he almost mows down. "No, but I find you very attractive," he explains, "So I thought it was worth a shot."

I clarify my status to him and he is nothing if not persistent.

Writing his name and number down, he goes in for the big finish. "Have a nice lunch. I hope I hear from you."

Damn.

I know I'm lucky that such random things happen to me.

Double damn.

My cheeseburger is cold.

A Happy Meal

Everyone has a preference for what needs to be eaten the day after an overly indulgent evening.

Personally, I think a cheeseburger does the job better than anything else. And if I'm in need of a nice, fatty burger, one guaranteed to leave grease stains on the paper it's wrapped in, Roy's Big Burger is my default.

By the time I rolled up, the mad lunch rush was over and there were just a few people standing around waiting for their orders.  

A cute couple was smooching under the shade of the overhang and two business women were making catty remarks about a co-worker. That made for more females than I've ever seen at Roy's at one time. Maybe the male-only hours end at 2:00 or something.

Much as I love Roy's milkshakes, today was a day that this non-coffee drinker needed caffeine, so I got a Coke with my cheeseburger and fries.

I rolled my eyes when the two women's order got called out: two double cheeseburgers, large onion rings, large fries, a water and a Diet Coke. Not that it's any of my business, but I tend to judge that kind of twisted logic with bemusement.

Ready to mainline my Rx, I took the bag to the shaded place in the back parking lot to enjoy my meal while reading today's Washington Post.

Thanks, Roy's, for once again saving me from myself. There's a particular pleasure in treating one indulgence with another. 

Color me satisfied on any number of levels at this moment...and not just about getting my Roy's fix.

Hold the Catsup and Mustard

It's so hot I couldn't eat a traditional burger on Memorial Day.

A group of us went to celebrate a friend's birthday (I'm beginning to think I only know Geminis) at Carytown Burger and Fries outdoors under the awning.

And, sadly, I couldn't bear the thought of a burger, despite my love of same. Hell, cheeseburgers were my birthday dinner of choice the entire time I was growing up when we got to choose our birthday dinners.

But I couldn't do it. I wimped out and got a salad, granted one with an abundance of bacon, avocado and blue cheese, but one that was mostly iceburg lettuce, tomatoes and baby spinach. Plant matter I could handle.

To make my self feel better about it, I had a bite of the birthday boy's cheeseburger, which merely confirmed what I already knew. It was too hot for eating flesh today, for me anyway.

Nearby, a certain local skull artist happily ate his. My friends ate theirs. The exotic looking family behind us ate theirs.

Note to self: adjust to summer's sudden arrival quickly. Life without cheeseburgers is not really living.

You can quote me on that.

Beaten by a Roy's Chocolate Shake

When you throw a post out into the blogosphere, you never know how it will resonate.

Some posts are hot for a day or a week or, with a controversial one, even months (the one about EatingRichmond will seemingly never die).

And sometimes I have to think that it's the subject that makes it a perennial favorite. Two of my most consistently popular pages are the one about Roy's Big Burger, here, and the one about the Grill at Patterson and Libbie, here. Months after they were written, readers continue to find them and sometimes even comment on them.

Such was the case recently with the Roy's post and the reader must have liked what he read because he became a follower.

In fact, reading his tribute to Roy's got me in the mood for grease-soaked parchment paper with a cheeseburger inside enjoyed from within the confines of my car. You know, the true Roy's experience.

It wasn't hard to find a willing partner for a late afternoon burger, at least not once I mentioned it would be at Roy's.

Turns out my friend had had many a childhood burger there, although never a milkshake. Once I described the shakes to him, he was all about a 3:00 "snack."

At the point when the cashier asked him whether he wanted a large or small shake, he looked confused. The cook in the back held up the small cup for reference's sake and Friend at least had the sense to guffaw.

"Large, please," he said with the false authority of someone who had never tasted their milkshakes. He was sure he could conquer a large.

Once I had come up for air after inhaling my cheeseburger and half the large fries, he glanced over at me. "Ketchup on your lip," he told me, crumpling his paper.

"Milkshake only half-gone," I reminded him, knowing his issue was less easily solved than mine.

Handing him the milkshake's still-plentiful remains when I dropped him off, he looked beaten. "Can't do it," he admitted.

Many can start, but not all can finish. Roy's milkshakes. Yea, that's what I was talking about.

Burgers Under a Blue Sky

(With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

Carytown Burgers how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My mouth and soul can reach

I love your large, misshapen patties
Encased in a soft over sized bun
I love the oozing ketchup and mustard
Yellow as the mid-day sun

I love your thick cut fries
Salted and seasoned and hot
I inhale your enormous milkshakes
Even though I know I should not.

But what I love best is that tiny little patio area back by the a/c units. Not the plastic-encased "patio," where most people sit, but the back two-table gravel-floored rectangle where the sky is the ceiling and today it was so beautifully blue that it alone could make a person feel like anything was possible.

And maybe it is...once I stop feeling quite this full.

Roy's Big Burger Delivers

Months after being advised to visit Roy's Big Burger, here, I finally made it to Northside for lunch there.

Anticipating long lines and men eating in their cars, we were surprised not to find the former but amazed to see the latter in spades.

There were two lone people waiting for pick-up when we arrived, but that was it.

I didn't even know they did hot dogs, but obviously I wasn't at a place called Roy's Big Burger for a dog.

Nope, I wanted a cheeseburger with grilled onions (my favorite burger add-on), fries and a chocolate shake.

The only difference between my friend's cheeseburger and mine was in the condiment department; I opted out of mayo and he declined ketchup.

We admired the rock sitting next to RBB's order checks (a legal pad), labeled "Security Department."

No doubt a deterrent, I have to assume that that's just how things are done in Lakeside.

Standing there waiting for our number to come up, I admired the simplicity of Roy's, a place that looks virtually unchanged from the vintage photograph of it in the window.

You know, the one with the sign advertising "35-cent quarter pound burgers on Merita rolls."

The car in the picture is clearly of another gas-guzzling era and the customers milling about are distinguished by how much better dressed they were than today's customers.

Well, that and none of them were obese.

When our order was ready, we took it to nearby Bryan Park rather than join the parking lot lunchers, who really were all men.

It's one thing to eat in your car at John's Drive-in at the beach with the ocean just across the street, but frankly there wasn't much appealing about eating alongside scenic Lakeside Avenue.

Shelter #3, on the other hand, provided tables and a shady escape on a sunny day.

I loved that the shelter had two enormous fireplaces at either end.

My friend commented on how wonderful and warm it would be in that shelter with both of them going on a cold day, making for a warm cold day.

That reminded me of how in my college days when my electricity was included in my rent, I would run the a/c but have all the windows open, to enjoy cool heat.

Luckily I outgrew that frivolous habit, but I think the concept is similar.

The glassless windows provided park views all around us.

It was a most pleasant place to unwrap our parchment paper-wrapped burgers and start sipping possibly the darkest chocolate shake I've ever sucked trhough a straw.

I don't know what I appreciated more, my greasy fingers or the grease stain left by my burger on the paper.

Either way, I scarfed mine down, along with fries and way too much milkshake (the beauty of which is enjoying dessert right along with the meal) while my manly friend ate only part of his burger and then wrapped up the rest for later.

So much for my dainty feminine appetite.

Afterwards, we watched two guys with red mohawks playing Frisbee golf and a less distinct-looking group of guys throwing things at a tree trying to retrieve someone's disc.

I'm no athlete, but clearly there are different hazards to Frisbee golf than the ball kind.

The only hazard to Roy's that my friend and I could think of was that a meal like that might put a person in need of a nap.

Or a coronary bypass, but the nap sounds so much more enticing.

Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger

My love affair with the cheeseburger is long-standing and well documented, here.

No vacation is complete without one, even when the ground meat is from an unusual animal (South Africa) or it's being used as a hangover remedy (London).

And certainly no birthday goes by without a nod to the traditional birthday burger.

I was late getting around to it, but finally made it to Carytown Burger and Fries to relive my childhood birthday dinners today.

Just recently a friend and I had discussed our feelings about burgers being put on fancy bread or unusual rolls; we're against it.

For that matter, I know some people don't require cheese on a burger and that would have amounted to blasphemy in my family.

I'm all about the cheeseburger and not what's used to augment it ("gussy it up" as my grandmother used to say).

But I was alone in my purist feelings on the subject at lunch.

One friend got the Kojak Burger (bacon, egg, cheese, lettuces, tomato, onion, mustard, mayo and pickles).

I teased him about his burger, saying "You sure you couldn't have gotten more on that burger?" (it definitely qualified as tall food) only to have him inform me that it didn't have the chicken tender or it would have been the Barnyard Brawl Burger.

There are people who want chicken on their burger?

When did this happen?

I can more easily understand the Bomb (chili, melted cheddar, bacon, grilled onion, mushrooms, lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, mayo and pickles) KA BLAM! than I can the Barnyard Brawl.

I wouldn't eat it, either, but it's not quite as off-putting.

Do I really want cow and fowl battling in my mouth?

Frankly, no.

So I happily ate my cheeseburger with catsup, mustard and pickles, although it took me longer than it did my friend to finish his Kojak.

That's just a guy/girl thing, though; I was savoring and he was inhaling.

A good cheeseburger is worthy of either.