Hamburger America (24 page)

The Convention Grill opened in 1934, built by a diner fabrication company that had planned to start a chain. When the company struggled, a Greek immigrant named Peter Santrizos took the Edina location off the company’s hands for paltry $75. Peter ran Convention Grill until Twin Cities restaurateur John Rimarcik came along in 1974 and bought the iconic burger counter from Peter. John, at the age of 34, already the owner of several area restaurants, saw amazing potential in the Convention. He also knew that by changing anything he would destroy the ethos of the place. John has worked in the restaurant business since he was 12 years old, loves hamburgers, and clearly also has a soft spot for the classic American diner.

The only major change visible at the 76-year-old diner is the expansion to the dining room. In the late ’80s, and again in the early ’90s, John purchased the neighboring beauty salon and barbershop, greatly increasing his seating capacity. The additions lack the genuine feel of the original section of the diner but most regulars don’t seem to care.

The burgers are cooked on a flattop in plain view of anyone seated at the curved counter. The Convention Grill uses fresh ground 80/20 Angus beef that is hand-pattied daily to around a quarter-pound. The burgers are basic because John believes that when you stray from the simplicity of an all-American burger you end up with, as he put it, “Something else.” Stick with the cheeseburger and you can’t go wrong. The Convention offers Swiss, American, Muenster, and an amazing smoky cheddar cheese and standard condiments like tomato, lettuce, and bacon.

There’s a very curious burger on the menu at the Convention that I had been warned about—the “Plazaburger,” served on a dark bun with a dollop of sour cream, chives, and chopped onions. In all my travels I had indeed come across the actual Plazaburger at the Plaza Tavern in Madison, Wisconsin, and right there on the menu, the Convention was giving credit to this University of Wisconsin staple. “It was suggested to me years ago by a regular named Dudley Riggs,” John explained. Dudley told John that he ought to have the burger on the menu. “It sounded despicable,” John told me, “but I put it on there out of respect for him and it became our biggest seller.” Years later, John went to the actual Plaza Tavern to try the burger that made it to his menu. “Theirs was the furthest thing from what had been described to me, and ours was better.” Thanks to a healthy dose of the telephone game the two burgers have very little in common. I know how tight-lipped Plaza Tavern owner Dean Hetue is about the recipe for his secret sauce and was actually happy to find that the code had not been cracked.

A large chunk of the menu at the Convention Grill is dedicated to ice cream and drinks. Indulge in a malted milk, the Convention’s vernacular for a milkshake. They come ridiculously thick and with the steel cup it was mixed in. Or get a phosphate, the old-time terminology for soda water with flavors mixed in. The Convention offers cherry and lime phosphates, and they are pleasantly refreshing.

We should all be glad a guy like John Rimarcik owns the Convention Grill. He told me, in complete seriousness, “I love hamburgers and we take pride in serving them here.” John explained that the name of the restaurant came from a “meeting place” or “a place for people to get together and have fun.” Considering the Convention Grill’s legacy its meaning is probably even deeper today.

 

 

“W
e are the real deal drive-in,” Gordy’s owner Dan Lunquist said with confidence. “You won’t find burgers with fancy stuff on them here.” And you won’t, because nothing has
changed since what Dan’s father Gordy refers to as the “good old days”—fifty-some years ago when the drive-in first opened. “Consistency is the key,” Dan told me, and he was serious. Pretty much, the burger you ate there years ago will be no different than the one you’ll get today.

Gordy and Marilyn

 

Gordy’s is a destination burger stand. “Forty percent of our business comes from people from Minneapolis stopping on the way to their lake cabins,” Dan explained. Gordy’s is just off I-35, the main artery connecting the Twin Cities to Duluth. “They get in a pattern of stopping here.” And they do. During the six warm months that Gordy’s is open, the restaurant will serve up to 2,000 burgers a day. That’s pretty impressive for a place that’s not in or near a major metropolis.

The most popular burger at Gordy’s is the double cheeseburger. Ask for everything, and you’ll get a burger with pickles, ketchup, mustard, and raw or grilled onion. Other condiments are available like tomato, bacon, and lettuce but you really need to follow history and appreciate the simplicity of this amazing burger. My wife, Casey, pointed out that she had never seen a better-constructed hamburger. Somehow this burger, even though it was soft, tasty, and loaded with cheese and more managed to not drip or fall apart before you finished. A perfect package of beefy goodness.

The fresh ground beef comes from a supplier in Minneapolis and is hand-pattied daily using an ice cream scoop for sizing. Dan told me that they wear out the flattop griddle every 7 years.

Today, Gordy’s is owned by Dan but his parents, both in their eighties, still come up from Florida to spend the summer working at the drive-in. When I was there (during a busy early dinner rush), Gordy was sweeping up with a broom and dustpan and Marilyn was at her post in the kitchen warming and prepping buns at a griddle. “I’ve been doing this 58 years,” Marilyn said with a smile as she gave multiple buns a squirt of ketchup without looking. “58 years!”

The kitchen is alive with energy and dozens of employees (a lot of them Lundquists). During a rush, the kitchen kicks into high gear, working like a well-oiled machine. Everyone has a task and repeats that task over and over again as the orders come pouring in. Marilyn is the point person, calling out orders from tickets as they are handed to her, all the while toasting and prepping buns. It’s truly mesmerizing.

Before there was the Hi-Hat, Gordy and Marilyn Lundquist opened the first A&W Root Beer stand in Minnesota in 1950, and after that the wildly popular London Inn of Duluth in 1955. In the ’40s Gordy did some research out in California and came across a little-known burger stand called McDonald’s Famous Hamburgers. He liked what he saw and immediately hatched a plan to replicate the stand in his home state of Minnesota. The London Inn became the spot to go in Duluth in the mid-fifties and Gordy told me, “It was a riot. I think we had every student from University of Minnesota–Duluth, every day!” Dan added, “My father used to always say, ‘If I had a nickel for every time someone burned rubber in the parking lot, I’d be a rich man.’” Gordy and Marilyn sold the London Inn in 1960 because, as Gordy put it, “Someone offered us too much money to stay.” They decided to move 20 miles west to the village of Cloquet to raise a family and set down permanent roots. Soon thereafter, Gordy’s was born.

Gordy’s has expanded many times over the years and started as a tiny box with a walk-up window to order from. Today, the kitchen area is still where it was half a century ago, but many rooms have been added, bringing the seating capacity to over 100 inside and out. The efficient ordering system and enormous staff is all geared toward getting you a hot hamburger as fast as possible. This is the unwavering, 50-year-old mission at Gordy’s. Dan left me with these words: “We don’t do anything magical. We just keep it simple and don’t screw it up.”

“W
e had a bad Sunday,” waitress Devon told me on my first visit. Before I realized what she was talking about, I assumed that things were slow at this South Minneapolis bar. Devon pointed out that the bad Sunday was attributed to the large number of “Jucy Lucys” that had exploded on the griddle that day. If one explodes, the grill cook starts over. There’s no way to mend a broken Lucy.

If you have no connection to or have never visited the Twin Cities then there’s a good chance you have never met the beloved Jucy Lucy. The famed burger concoction can be found all over Minneapolis, but the epicenter of the Jucy Lucy legacy is a small, friendly, stuck-in-a-time-warp bar on the south side of town. In 1954, then owner Matt cooked up the first Jucy Lucy for a customer sitting at the bar who asked for “something special.” The result was two fresh quarter-pound patties crimped together with a folded slice of American cheese hiding inside. What happened next was pure science.