hamburger


yawn, mouth open wide. once more, with feeling. oh gawd, noodle brains working a pat of grilled meat, worse, no buns.
the times flew me out to LA to photograph the various local burgers there were. my editor and i thought of it as a joke and we had a fabulous time. we crisscrossed virtually all of the endless high and not-so-highways in and around the city of angels, mid-morning, noon and very late night, taking and making images of all sorts of burger thingies, meat and soy and wedgy (veggie would be pronounced that way in hamburg) and salmon and turkey and (of course) chicken patties, squared or round, twin, triple or one pounders, topped with guacamole, caviar, pineapple, bacon, heaps of fried onion, black prunes, peanut butter, canned tomatoes, anchovies, peach chutney, refritos, sprouts, raw ahi, real tomatoes, i mentioned avocado, all kinds of greens, kosher and not-so-kosher dill pickles, sour cream, habanero jelly, with cheese, of any kind, in any or virtually all combinations. on seeded buns, pupusa, toasted white, squared-off rye, english muffin, any kind of muffin, bialy, levain or pumpernickel. plated on paper or see-through plastic, on plain plates or fancily scripted hotel ware. served with silver utensils on white linen cover. on the grill, flaming, palm trees and adobe as background. midriff, off center on the belly of a jingling dancer (the times wouldn’t print this concoction), on the red hood of a testa rossa, prancing horse on the gleaming grill, a true sunday times cover. it’s been a while since LA, and i won’t likely do this trip again. but every now and then, and now in portland, i like to make my favorite burger.


real plain. a square piece of butter encased in freshly ground round, wood-fired. fried onions, a wee bit of tomato puree, some capers aside.