Hamburger America (17 page)

The Irish Shanti has only been around in name since the mid-seventies but the building itself dates to 1929 when it opened as a grocery store. The restaurant has changed hands many times over the years and at one point the tiny town of Gunder was in danger of being literally wiped off the map. The unincorporated town, with a population barely in the double digits, was rescued by a grill cook at the Irish Shanti named LaVonne Christianson. In 1985, she had an idea to concoct a colossal burger for all to see and name it after the town. The plan worked and today Gunder remains on the map, and the enormous Gunderburger remains on the menu.

Hans, the chef at the Irish Shanti, explained, “We weigh out a 20-ounce ball of fresh ground beef that cooks down to around 16 ounces.” A very large wad of beef is slapped on the flattop and pressed into a patty by hand. Hans sprinkles a bit of a “secret fairy dust” on the patty then drops a bacon weight on it. The burger cooks slowly over low heat on a griddle that has an excellent, dark patina. “We don’t aggressively
clean it,” Hans said of the griddle.

If you order a Loaded Gunderburger get ready to flex those jaw muscles. To the one-pound cheeseburger Hans adds lettuce, tomato, bacon, sautéed onions, and grilled mushrooms and he is not stingy. After construction, this burger weighs in at around one-and-a-half pounds.

The appearance of the Loaded Gunderburger is part of its shock value. To say that the bun is disproportionate to the patty is an understatement. Hans purposely uses a standard-sized bun that does not stand a chance in holding back the burger’s contents. The patty and piles of condiments protrude cartoonishly from under the bun leaving the uninitiated with a challenge. I actually tried to heft the beast to my face only to find that the bottom half of the bun had virtually vanished into the copious juices. I ate the burger gripping the patty but eventually had to use a fork because stuff was falling everywhere. “The strategy I tell people is to go around the outside of the bun with a fork first,” Hans told me. The Gunderburger was a mess but well worth it. You’ll need a hose-down after this one.

Kevin moved from his native Boston and left his job as a registered nurse to buy the restaurant in 2005 with his wife, Elsie. One of the first major changes he made was to add a sizeable kitchen. “It used to be here,” Kevin explained with his arms outstretched at the end of the bar. Kevin is Irish and this probably explains the proudly displayed Irish flag in the center of the dining room and the Guinness on tap.

Start your meal with a retro appetizer, the relish tray. It’s a sort of midwestern version of the antipasto plate featuring ham salad, diced cheese, olives, carrots, and crackers. The Irish Shanti also serves fried cheese curds, one of my absolute favorite guilty pleasures available in this part of the country. Everything at the Shanti is made fresh in-house and most of the produce during the warmer months comes from their garden.

So if you are rambling around northeast Iowa in search of nourishment seek out the Irish Shanti. Indulge in a few pints of Guinness, meet some great people, and eat the burger that saved a town.

 

 

T
here was a time in American tavern culture when the drink reigned supreme. Certain bartenders probably noticed the need to serve a modicum of edible nourishment to keep their customers from leaving for meals and the bartop grill was born. The foodservice at Paul’s is a vestige of this tavern past that holds a tiny footprint behind the bar. Although small, the bar kitchen at Paul’s still cranks out amazing burgers to comfortably buzzed patrons.

I’ve heard people refer to Paul’s as a “dive,” and after my first visit I have to say that Paul’s is the cleanest dive I’ve ever set foot in. Somehow, this broken-in bar shows its age but maintains its gritty character without coming off as a dump. The place is filled with perfectly preserved vintage beer signs and the most amazing collection of taxidermy you’ll ever see while sipping a Miller High Life. The bears, bighorn sheep, deer, and alligators that line the walls were all hunted by former owner Paul Schollmeyer. The displays go beyond the traditional random, dusty deer head over the bar. The work that went into these displays is astounding and the taxidermist was clearly a master at the craft. Think Museum of Natural History in a bar setting. There are large, well-lit glass cases on either side of the bar and one that is actually mounted on the ceiling for effect. That case contains a massive polar bear, shot in 1966. Paul, who is now 83 and still visits the bar frequently, told me he bagged the polar bear years before restrictions were placed on hunting them. As I surveyed the impressive collection of mounted big game overhead Paul leaned and whispered to me, “I don’t mean to brag, but I can shoot.”

The centerpiece of the tiny kitchen area at the end of the long bar is an ancient Norge Broilator. The thick, black stove is one of the more unique cooking apparatuses I’ve seen for burger making and clearly the precursor to the salamander broiler found in many professional kitchens. The most obvious difference in the Broilator is that the burgers cook on a small, well-seasoned flattop that can’t be more than 2 feet wide and only 1 foot deep. Burgers are slapped onto the tiny flattop and the operator pulls on a bar that simultaneously closes the door and sends the burgers up and into the center of the stove. The burgers then cook from above by indirect flame as they sizzle on the griddle. Totally unique.

Though the cooking area inside the Broilator is limited, bar manager Dave explained, “It can cook eight at a time.” The burgers start as quarter-pound scooped balls of 90/10 fresh ground beef that are placed in a single patty press. “We use lean beef because anything too fatty and it’ll flare up and burn,” Dave told me. Soft white buns are warmed in a nearby toaster-oven and the burgers are served on tiny paper plates with pickles and a slice of raw onion. When I inquired about additional condiments Dave responded gruffly, “No lettuce, tomato, or any of that stuff.” The burger at Paul’s is simplicity personified.

Today the tavern is owned by a former manager from McDonald’s, Tom Koch, a friend of Paul’s who purchased the place in 1991. Paul actually approached Tom and asked him to take the reins, probably so that his big game collection would remain intact. “Everybody loves this place,” Tom told me. “I told Paul I’d try it for a year and [20 years later] I’m still here.” Tom’s brother, Dave, helps manage the tavern and his daughter, Amber, bartends and makes burgers. I believe the future of Paul’s is secure.

As we polished off our fourth or fifth beers and finished our burgers, my wife, Casey, (the former vegetarian), surrounded by the taxidermy said, “Every bar in New York City wishes they were this cool.” It’s true. Paul’s Tavern is the real deal. Everything else is just trying to be Paul’s.

 

 

T
aylor’s does not serve hamburgers. Taylor’s serves a “loosemeats sandwich.” For those not familiar with the popular Iowa hamburger-influenced sandwich, a loosemeats, or Maid-Rite (and sometimes referred to as a “tavern”), is basically a deconstructed hamburger, or a Sloppy Joe without the slop. The recipe is simple: fresh ground-on-premises beef is steamed and crumbled in a cast-iron cooker. Nothing is added but salt. Upon getting an order, a member of the extended Taylor family or longtime employee grabs a bun that has been “doped” with pickle and mustard, and with the other hand scoops up an impossible amount of the pebbly, moist meat. That’s it, and there’s nothing else on the menu but shakes, ice cream, pie, and soft drinks, and they have been
doing it this way since 1928. The order is wrapped up even if you are eating at the counter. “Wrapping makes the bun soft,” Zac told me. Zac is a fifth-generation Taylor proving that Taylor’s is clearly a family-run business.