We sat in the front by the windows and all tables and counter areas were dirty. The food was good had the Thanksgiving burger and like a BBQ bacon burger no complaints.
Walked up to the hostess stand and stood there no one was there to greet, and we had no idea what to do next. We were going to sit there and enjoy more drinks as we watched the game but were never given that option.
Numerous other customers came in and walked past the hostess table to sit themselves which they were met by the worst attitude from the girl sitting people, maybe she shouldn't be chilling at the bar but actually greeting people and doing her job. Claim your listing for free to respond to reviews, update your profile and much more.
The often overlooked East Coast cousin of New York City, Boston is perhaps most famous for being home to one of the most prestigious universities in the world, impressions of Leonardo DiCaprio screaming “I AM NOT A CW AWP”, and holding the record for “most bloodshed caused by a rowdy tea party, 1773-present”. Having visited the set and shaken some celebrity hands, I found myself with a spare few afternoon hours to while away in the city that bore Elle Woods’ Alma Mater, the film that finally earned Martin Scorsese an Oscar for Best Director, and the physical embodiment of manifest destiny.
If the Kardashian are the most famous family on the West Coast, the Walkers have the East on lockdown. Nestled in the shadow of Fenway Park, the chain has a handful of restaurants, mostly dotted around the East Coast, where it could easily become just another fast food joint (though, granted, the only one with a reality show based purely on a high profile pun).
“House marinated & roasted Portabello mushroom cap, white cheddar, caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, lettuce, tomato & Paul’s signature wall sauce.” They should really change the name of this burger to the Fried Onion Sandwich, though, because they're all you're gonna notice while you're chowing it down.
Here we, here we, here we fucking go... the main event, the moment we’ve all been waiting, the first taste of what the Walkers consider to be the perfect beef patty. The moment I sink my teeth into this medium rare masterpiece, I whip out my phone and quickly edit the default wiki picture for “patty”, updating it to reflect Paul’s singular vision.
Melt in the mouth meat, this beef can only have been bred by the sort of farmer who didn't grow up fearing mad cow disease or cutting costs to keep up with supermarket prices. The only thing that matters about this burger’s toppings is that it contains the best bacon I’ve had in my entire fucking life.
With this burger, you have the choice between eating the grease-imbued slice of bread with a knife and fork, or actually interacting with it with your physical, literal hands. Like the difference between ordering a drone strike and pulling a trigger, dissociation makes a fundamentally horrible experience a lot more palatable.
I have no idea what makes “government cheese” special (but if it’s anything like the Tories it can’t be trusted with your health or well-being). The Walkers lay on a signature layer of onions, but any flavor in this burger is overwhelmed by the torrent of grease oozing out of the bun.
“Fresh ground seasoned turkey burger, stuffing, mayo, HOUSEMATE orange-cranberry sauce & roasted butternut squash.” The only respite from the overbearing dryness of the turkey patty on offer is a layer of sickly sweet orange cranberry sauce, which does nothing to relieve your artificially-induced thirst.
Key is an old school friend, the kind who used to wear off-white briefs on swim day, and squirt milk out his nose when he laughed his shrill stupid laugh that attracted the attention of the big boys and the bullies. Now he can't eat a single meal out without demanding hot sauce, and calls you a pussy when you order a korma.
If you went up to a stranger in the street and asked them to draw a burger off the top of their head, you’d definitely be ignored. But if you managed to find someone either mind-numbingly bored, or desperate to believe every unusual public occurrence is part of a Punk’d -style prank show, this is the burger they’d draw (before excitedly screaming “where are the cameras”).
Sure, a lump of pulled pork, blue cheese sauce and pickles sounds like the greatest combo in the world, and you know what, for the first two seconds it was absolutely biblical. But, as with Lot at Sodom & Gomorrah, my dreams quickly turned to a pile of salt.
That sentence makes perfect sense if you replace “dreams” with “taste buds”, because nothing will ever grow on my tongue again after the sodium battering it just went through. I know the Weinberg family is pretty huge, but just because they could make a burger big enough to feed all nine of them doesn't mean they should.
Three would significantly weaken Adam Rich man from Man vs. Food’s unique bargaining position in his next contract negotiation. But, thanks to sampling 10 times the recommended serving size of delicious, (sort of) nutritious burger, I can announce there is one winner: The O.F.D.
Burger, I can imagine Walmart standing over the grill, lovingly flipping 11 patties, one for each of her children, her husband, and herself. I can feel the sunshine glint across my eyes, reflected from the cool can of beer gently perspiring in Wahldaddy’s hand.
I can feel the breeze blow through my hair as I roughhouse with the nine Wahlchildren, reenacting the last inning of that weekend’s Red Sox game. The sign in arrivals at Logan Airport should read “Welcome to Boston, home of Harvard, The Departed, American Independence, and Hamburgers (try the O.F.D.
We had been wanting to try Hamburgers and finally got the chance to stop in tonight for dinner. The bun on the burgers can’t be beat.