Hamburger America (23 page)

 

 

I
f I told you that when I first arrived at Motz’s Burgers I ran into the place with unbridled enthusiasm I’d be lying. On my first visit to
the vintage burger joint that shared my name, needless to say, I was very nervous. What if the burgers were crap? What if this tiny ex-White Castle, nestled in an industrial wasteland on the outskirts of downtown Detroit, was a washed-up version of its former self? How would I explain that this perfect little burger joint was a bust?

The first five minutes inside Motz’s Burgers was a complete blur. I quickly spotted the griddle and a cook smashing balls of fresh meat, and noted the glorious smell of onions that filled the little diner. There were a few stools and a counter and people walking off with paper bags full of steaming sliders. The scene was right out of a Depression-era FSA black-and-white photo. I had stumbled into hamburger nirvana and I was beyond relieved.

Even though we share a name, the pronunciation differs. Originally, the restaurant was called “Motts Burgers,” named after the man that scooped up a handful of Detroit-area White Castles that were being sold to offset the financial strain of the Great Depression. Motts purchased a few in the ’30s and put family members in charge of each one. Robert Motts, the son of the original owner, decided to sell the West Fort Street location in 1996 to current owners Bob and Mary Milosavljeveski. Bob had just left his father’s 36-year-old local bakery and was searching for something new. Motts asked Bob to change the name since there was another Motts Burger still in operation down the street. Bob chose to replace the
t’
s with a
z
, thus making my visit to the place destiny.

Bob’s wife, Mary, makes change and takes orders at the counter while grill cook of 20 years Tammy (from the Motts days) flips burgers. At one point during my conversation with Bob, Tammy leaned over and audibly whispered to him, “Did you tell him the secret ingredient?” A pregnant pause followed and I was compelled to blurt out, “What is it?” “Love,” Tammy told me with a straight face. “Love is the secret ingredient. If you don’t love what you are doing, it ain’t gonna taste good.”

The burgers basically come in three sizes—a
single, a double, and a “King Motz,” which is a triple. “Motts said ‘keep the burgers the same’ and he was right,” Bob told me at the counter during the busy lunch rush. The burgers at Motz’s are really oversized sliders but cooked the exact same way a place like White Castle would have done it over 80 years earlier. Bob picks up fresh ground beef for the restaurant every morning. A rolled ball of 88/12 chuck and rump round mixture is tossed on the flattop behind the counter and pressed flat with a spatula. A handful of thinly sliced Spanish onion is sprinkled on top that softens and intermingles with the patty once it’s flipped. The result is, well, the burger that I make at home—the purest form of the American hamburger that I know of. An original Motz Slider is served on white squishy bun with mustard, ketchup, and pickles and is very tasty. Although I prefer my burgers without ketchup, I gave in to tradition and was pleasantly surprised.

When Bob and Mary bought the place in 1996, it was a dilapidated relic. “The place was a dump,” Bob said with conviction and explained how he gave the interior a major facelift without destroying the integrity of the place. “We moved the griddle but kept it in sight.” Bob explained, “Places like this will never die out because you can see the cook, see the meat.”

The neighborhood surrounding Motz’s Burgers ain’t pretty. The only other visible sign of life is the enormous Detroit Produce Terminal directly across the street. Truckers and employees from the Terminal make up the bulk of business. “That’s the only reason we are surviving,” Bob told me. At one time in this neighborhood’s history, West Fort Street was lined with factories and bars and this burger joint probably fit in perfectly. The fact that this national treasure is still standing and serving great burgers is an absolute miracle. I wondered why Bob and Mary would take a chance in a neighborhood like this but I got my answer. “If it has survived 80 years, it’ll be around for a while.”

 

 

R
edamak’s is a burger destination. Vacationers come from miles around for a weekend at Lake Michigan and most visit Redamak’s for nourishment. George and Gladys Redamak opened a tiny mom-and-pop burger restaurant in the late 1940s. In 1975 the Maroney family bought the restaurant from Gladys, with the stipulation that they keep it the same. It didn’t really turn out that way, though—they actually made it better.

Redamak’s is enormous. Years of expansion and updating to the structure have created a profoundly successful restaurant that can comfortably seat 400. Crowd control is aided by two sets
of double doors at the front—one marked ENTER, the other EXIT. If you have kids, you won’t be alone here—kids and families populate the place. There are two separate video arcades and a sizable kids’ menu. If you need a drink, there’s a bar right in the center of it all. And of course, if you need a burger, Redamak’s makes one of the best in the country.

The menu is round, the size of a large pizza, and has more text on it than the front page of the
Chicago Tribune
. You won’t believe the options you’ll have. Everything from corn dogs to clam strips is offered, along with seven different types of French fries. There’s even lake perch on Fridays. The endless selection of lakefront comfort food can’t disguise the fact that the burgers are the star attraction here. The menu proudly proclaims the Redamak’s burger is “The Burger That Made New Buffalo Famous.”

Fresh Iowa beef chuck steaks are ground in the kitchen for the six-ounce burgers at Redamak’s. Manager Matt told me, “They are grinding all of the time back there.” They have to keep grinding because the kitchen cranks out over 2,500 fresh patties a day. “We are going to break our record again this year,” Charles Maroney pointed out. In 2010 Redamak’s ground over 135,000 pounds of chuck steaks for burgers, which is amazing for a restaurant that’s only open eight months of the year. What’s even more baffling is the method by which this astounding number of burgers is cooked every day—each one is cooked in a pan by itself. This sounds impossible, but I saw it with my own eyes. There must have been five stovetops lined up, 30 burners in all. On each burner, a single skillet. In each pan, only a few burgers. “We do it that way to keep the juices with the burger,” Charles told me, “On a griddle, those juices dissipate.” Charles also pointed out that, along with their use of Velveeta cheese, the Maroney family is committed to doing things the way the Redamaks did for so many successful years.

Tomato and lettuce are not offered with a Redamak’s burger. “Redamak’s started as a tavern and there was no place for lettuce and tomato in bar food,” Charles told me. Again, a tradition the restaurant holds dear. A burger with everything comes with ketchup, mustard, pickles, a slice of raw onion, and melted Velveeta. Don’t panic. The oldest and most venerable burger destination in America, Louis’ Lunch of New Haven, also indulges in the yellow stuff. Besides, it tastes good.

Bring the family, bring your friends, bring everyone you know—Redamak’s can handle the crowds with ease. You’ll probably have to wait, so go to the video arcade or browse the merchandise at the front. It might be the only place in America where you can buy a souvenir yo-yo in the shape of a hamburger.

 

 

T
here are times when a diner looks vintage inside and out but the menu and ownership fail to live up to its historical roots. The Convention Grill, a Twin Cities institution, looks the part as you first step in off the street, almost too much so. The original tiled floor, the red leather swivel stools, the off-white patina to the walls, and the griddle behind the counter all look too good to be true. The waitstaff, scurrying around in pressed white uniforms with white shoes, makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a period film from the ’30s. The good news is it’s not all show. The Convention Grill is a perfectly preserved time capsule from diner culture of the early twentieth century. The burgers at Convention Grill stand up to the image, and the whole package makes for a
genuine, throwback hamburger experience.