Oh, ho, ho, I lie.

Remember last time when I said I was gonna run a half marathon? Guess what I did instead.

I bought cigarettes.

I know, I know, shut up. That's not what I'm here to talk about.

Let's talk about burgers. I am at Hawethorne's tonight, which has an amazing selection of beers. Tonight I am drinking Boulder Beer's Obovoid, an oak-aged oatmeal stout. The super tattooed guy who checked me out (aww, yeahhh) said, "This is perfect for burgers," and because I am very susceptible to suggestion, and I was hungry, I ordered one.

PS, "burger" is my safe word.
PPS, did you know that they used to call it the "everyday steak"? True story.

It comes on a toasted brioche bun with aged gouda (3 years old! like eating babies, if said babies were made of cheese).  Usually it comes with fries (the best thing here, not counting beer and cute guys), but I opted for a salad because... well, because I have been eating shit for two weeks and I thought it would offset four beers and a burger.

...

Again, shut up. My logic is sound. ("I can hear the ocean...!")

ANYWAY, stop interrupting kthx, I ordered my burger medium-rare, like I always do. And while it was a good burger in many respects (a decent 1/2" thick, brioche bun was excellent), it was definitely not medium rare. It's a fine line, but it makes a difference.

This is a picture of a delicious looking medium rare burger, which I *ahem* borrowed from Philly Phoodies's review of Sketch Burger*:

Do you see the four layers of meat cook-ed-ness? Seared, caramelized meat "crust"; thin, well done layer for meaty toothsomeness**; thicker layer of pinkish, juicy stuff; reddish-pink rabbit punch to the base of the brain*** of pure cow flavor. I am more than full (and a little drunk), and it is still making me salivate.

Man, I love burgers. And beer.

Off to bed with me now! Good night!



* They can't get mad if I promote them, can they?
** I might be making up words.
***Correctly guess this quote and I will buy you a beer...