Me and my new food-blogger burger buddy decided to meet for lunch again today. He had heard some rumblings in the burger community about the variation on the theme conceived and executed at Corkbar in downtown Los Angeles. I guess those things are apt to happen regularly when one reaches the apex of the burger community in one of the countries biggest metropolitan cities. I wouldn’t know, really, because the only “rumblings” I hear through this website come from people who call me “fag” and wish cancer or AIDS on me, or annoying PR types who want to tell me about the awesome new album by some band I’ve never heard of and wouldn’t be caught dead exposing people to on my blog. But hey, food and music are two totally different worlds. If he heard good things about Corkbar, I’ll go to Corkbar. I’m just in it for the burgers, man.
Corkbar is the epitome of downtown gentrification. It’s a stunning space to behold, designed impeccably with high ceilings and modern decor. The outdoor seating space with its central fire pit must be an amazing place to hang out with friends at night, perhaps over fine wines and a cheese/charcuterie plate. At noon on a Wednesday? It was pretty much dead except for two tables of people eating burgers. They probably worked downtown. They probably make more money in a month than I do in a year. As I sat down and wondered whether all the wine bottles displayed above the bar were secured I realized I fucking hated all of them.
We chatted about food and writing experience briefly before our waitress arrived to take our order. I’d already asked for and received a beer (Mad River Steelhead Extra Pale Ale). We decided to split two entrees: the Corkbar burger (lettuce, onion, tomato, house-made pickles and roasted tomato burger sauce on a challah bread bun) and grilled cheese (fontina cheese, sherry onion marmalade and roasted tomatoes on sourdough bread). As it arrived on our table the food looked rather impressive. That would be the extent of my positive Corkbar experience. Once the food came, everything changed.
Mr. Burger Guy (I still feel weird using his name, I don’t know why) took some photos for his blog. When he cut into the burger, our expressions changed. All I saw was gray. There was no pink on this “medium rare” patty. It was way too finely ground, with no marbling, no crumbling meat or presence of fat. It was just…gray. He explained that this normally is a result of salting the meat during the process of forming the patty, which often results in a compact, mealy patty that will often resemble meatloaf more than it will a quality burger. He could not have been more accurate. It was a great disappointment. The homemade pickles were cloyingly sweet, the burger sauce was a watery, uninspired take on your typical southern Californian thousand island formula. The challah bun was sweet, but the aioli quickly turned it into a soggy mess. My partner in burger-reviewing was so uninspired he didn’t even finish his half of the sandwich. The grilled cheese wasn’t too much better. It was cheesy, sure, but the bread was so heavily buttered that the essence of the sourdough’s traditionally tangy flavor was nowhere to be found. While the sherry onion marmalade was a clever, flavorful addition, the roasted red pepper seemed vestigial. I preferred it to the Corkbar burger, but really that’s not saying much. Every week it feels like a new gastropub opens in this city. And each one seemingly offers a re-imagined hamburger or grilled cheese sandwich. Sometimes these deviations fail. My meal today was evidence of just that.
What do you say when an eatery leaves you unimpressed? Maybe the chef just wasn’t on top of his or her game today. Maybe next time it will be different. There are myriad excuses one can form to compensate for a negative incident. Eating a hamburger is no different than any other endeavor in that regard. But I’m trying my hardest to track down the single best burgers in the city of Los Angeles, and Corkbar let me down.
Now, granted, my “gourmand” title was understandably ill-concieved. I’ll be the first person to admit my vocabulary and palate are rudimentary at best. I Imagine I hopped on the food blogging bandwagon for the same reason one or two of others guys probably have in the past few years — to titty-fuck Gail Simmons — but none of those disqualifications prohibit me from knowing a bad hamburger when I taste one. Sorry, Corkbar. Your vibe might be first-rate, and your selection of wine might be finely curated, but your burger is not one of the best in Los Angeles.
Photo courtesy of Corkbar via Daily Obsession
