Over
my lifetime I have devoured hundreds, if not thousands, of hamburgers. The hamburger is one of my favorite parts of
Americana when it comes to food. They
are so simple and yet so complicated. On
the surface it is just bread, meat, bread.
In essence, it is a sandwich with two big pieces of bread. I have had beef, pork, chicken, turkey, and
fish hamburgers, some better than others.
Many of these burgers have included a cornucopia of seasonings included
into the meat from jalapenos to Thai spices. I have had a menagerie of add-ons
and condiments on my burgers. My
personal favorite combination is simple: bread, meat, cheese, tomato, mustard,
bread. Simple and elegant.
Of
all the burgers that I have had in my life only one stands out over all others
as the “Greatest.” In the second quarter
of the year 2000 I was on my first field deployment in the United States Marine
Corps. We had made the trek from Camp
Pendleton, California out to the Godforsaken land mass known as Twenty-Nine
Palms, or as we Marines referred to it: “The Stumps.” The name is a complete misnomer. With all the times that I spent on that base,
the only trees I saw were Joshua Trees; and those were located elsewhere from
the portions of the base that I saw regularly.
The Stumps is a vast desert and mountain region with nothing but sparse
scrub vegetation found intermittently about the base. The only place that I have ever been that was
more desolate and foreboding was the home of my step-grandparents when I was around
the age of eleven or twelve years old.
So,
there I am, out in the middle of the desert for thirty days traveling from one
local to the next. Over this period of
time I am reduced to eating Meals-Ready to-Eat (MREs) and field chow. MREs are packed meals for between fifteen
hundred and three thousand calories each.
Pretty nice when you manage to sweat out close to one hundred calories
an hour just sitting in the shade due to the extreme one-hundred and twenty
degree heat. Field chow is a whole
different ballgame, but still played in the same park. It is generally canned vegetables and fruit
served with either canned or dehydrated meat products. I was never sure of the caloric content, nor
do I think I want to know, of these meals, but like the MREs, some were pretty
damned tasty if you like the taste of cardboard and Tabasco Sauce.
Again,
I survived on this fare for thirty days.
It is not that hard to do. After
the first few days, though, you begin to miss a few small things. At first I missed fresh eggs. The powdered egg product they served us in
the field was just as I described it earlier, cardboard flavored with a hint of
Tabasco Sauce. The sauce was provided
courtesy of my MREs, at least those that did not need the sauce for those
meals. After eggs I began to miss just
about anything that was not prepackaged months in advance or powdered. I was going crazy. I traded cigarettes for candy bars, sunflower
seeds, anything that was not military food.
Finally,
after thirty days of culinary hell, we were told that we would be making a trip
to “Base Camp” for a quick resupply at the Post Exchange (PX). I was happy; I had run out of cigarettes two
days before and the life expectancy of my squad mates was dropping by the
hour. When we pulled into Base Camp an hour
later I noticed a building with smoke pouring out of the roof. I looked at my assistant driver and asked the
question that would change my life.
“What
the hell? Is that place on fire?”
“No
way, dude. That is the base burger
joint. Let’s go get some smokes and then
head over there” was his reply.
After
standing in line for cigarettes, and then puffing two in a row down outside, we
walked to the burger joint and made our way in.
Upon entering I was confronted with two things. First, the sight. This burger joint was just sheet metal
stretched over a frame with a kitchen in the back separated from the masses by
a half wall with two registers on a desk behind it. The floor was nothing more than the poured concrete
foundation. Picnic tables were arranged
in rows from front to back. The second
confrontation was with my nose. I
smelled that great, glorious aroma of cooking flesh. It filled the air, permeating every
molecule. It forced its way into every
nook and cranny. I was drunk on that
alluring smell in seconds. I practically
ran to get my butt in line to order.
After
sometime in line I finally was able to place my order and receive my ticket
number. I walked away from the counter,
giddy with anticipation. I joined my
squad mates at one of the picnic tables and wait for my number to be
called. And waited and waited and
waited. The actual wait time was no more
than fifteen minutes, but to a man deprived of burger for so long the time
seemed like hours. I watched, jealously,
hungrily, greedily as Marine after Marine that was not me was called to the
wall and handed his plate. Finally they
called my number. I do not remember the
walk up to the wall or the walk back.
All I do remember before the first bite was the sight of two quarter pound
patties of one hundred percent beef, three slices of bacon and two pieces of
melted American cheese, all on a standard, store bought hamburger bun.
My
hands trembled as I brought the burger, my precious bit of American culinary
delight, up to my gaping maw. I bit into
it. My taste buds were washed over with
a tsunami of flavor and grease. It was
ecstasy. It was Heaven. It was Nirvana. It was almost orgasmic. All was right with the world. Had I been looking in a mirror I would have
noticed my pupils dilate like those of a heroin addict when they spike their
vein. Each bite was more delicious than
the last. Each crumb more
scrumptious. Each artery clogging taste
was pure rapture.
Gone
was the taste of cardboard. Gone was the
need for Tabasco Sauce. This burger had
not been made and packaged more than six months ago. It was not made from anything
dehydrated. It has not come from a
can. The patties had been hand patted
and cooked on a grill that had probably not been cleaned in two years; just
more fat for the flavor.
Soon
it was all over. I took my last bite and
savored every chewing motion. As I
swallowed the last of that great concoction I turned my head to see that the
line for ordering was even longer than when I had first arrived. I checked my watch. Only ten minutes before our convoy rolled out
for another fifteen days in the desert.
Not enough time.
I
walked away from that table, from that burger joint, content with a belly full
of beef, pork and American cheese. When
I sat down in my truck to await the signal to start it up my assistant driver
looked at me and asked what I thought. I
conveyed my sentiment to him at which he laughed and called me a weirdo.
Shortly
thereafter the signal to start our engines was given and we drove away, back
into the blazing, sandy inferno from which we had emerged only an hour
before. I still remember that burger to
this day, more than a decade later. No
other burger has ever been able to taste as good. This knowledge has brought me to the edge of
tears more than once. Never again will I
savor that delectable, artery clogging, cholesterol raising symbol of a greater
power than mankind. If only you, the
humble reader could experience that burger.
If only you could truly understand how unfortunate you truly are. If only I could remember which entrance we
used to get into Twenty-Nine Palms that lead straight to the damned burger
joint.
