Hamburger America (59 page)

 

 

W
hen the first version of this book came out, I went on a book tour and did lots of promotion. On a talk show in Wisconsin, a deejay surprised me and announced live on the air, “Go ahead, give us a call and tell George what he left out of the book!” One of the overwhelming responses was that I had omitted a Racine, Wisconsin favorite, Kewpee Hamburgers. Needless to say, I was on my way to Racine almost immediately.

At one time Kewpee Hotel Hamburgs were all over the Upper Midwest. The first Kewpee opened in Flint, Michigan and was one of the first hamburger chains in America. Like many of the great burger chains of the ’30s and ’40s, Kewpee downsized during the Great Depression and saw further decline as the owners experimented with franchising. Today, only five Kewpees in three states remain and are all privately owned. The Racine location is the sole surviving Kewpee in the Dairy State.

On my first visit to Kewpee I sat at one of the low horseshoe counters and was happy to see that at 10 a.m. the griddle was already filled with burgers. The place is huge and could easily seat fifty people. This version of the restaurant is relatively new, but over the last nine decades the building has been replaced three times.

Kewpee does not use a patty machine like its sister restaurant in Lima, Ohio. In fact, there are very few similarities between the two Kewpees. Owner and lead grillperson Rick Buehrens told me, “Here, you’ll get a totally different burger than at the Ohio Kewpees.” For starters, Rick has eschewed the original Kewpee method of forming square patties in favor of the even more
traditional method of smashing balls of beef. He uses an ice cream scoop to form loose balls of fresh-ground beef and can produce six balls to the pound. In the morning, trays are filled with the balls and kept cold in the back. During a busy rush, Rick will take an entire tray, dump it onto the large flattop griddle, then sort and smash the mess into perfect patties.

An entirely separate flattop nearby is used to toast the buns. Ask for a cheeseburger and watch what happens. Rick does not sully the burger side of the griddle with cheese. Instead he’ll toss a cold slice on the left side of the flattop for a few seconds to melt. Like magic, the cheese doesn’t stick to the surface (or the spatula) and is transferred smoothly to your cheeseburger.

The burger options at Kewpee are basic—a single or double, with or without cheese, served on locally made, soft white buns. A burger with everything has pickle, chopped onion, mustard, and ketchup. I couldn’t help but notice that the ketchup was clearly more prominent than the mustard. “That’s based on what customers were telling me,” Rick explained. “It seems like I put less mustard on these days.”

Rick should know about changing tastes over time. He started working at Kewpee in 1976 as a dishwasher and became the owner after 27 years of sweat equity.

While waiting for your burgers, make sure to check out the enormous display case that contains hundreds of vintage Kewpie dolls of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The inspiration for the restaurant’s name came from the popular turn-of-the-century doll. The display lends a touch of history to an otherwise modern diner. Though the space has been updated, the burger has remained faithful to its roots and is made with the freshest ingredients. Sink your teeth into a classic and slip back in time with a Kewpee burger.

 

 

“D
on’t tell mom we stopped here,” I overheard a woman say to her brother. When I asked why, she told me, “We are heading to our family reunion.” That’s the kind of place Pete’s is—a 101-year-old institution that makes you want to stop even though you shouldn’t. The draw is too great, the burgers amazing.

Pete’s is a tiny, neat burger stand right in the center of the quaint southwestern Wisconsin town of Prairie du Chien. Little has changed at Pete’s in the last century, except for the size of the place, which has gone from very small to small. “In 1909, Pete Gokey started selling burgers from a cart at fairs and circuses,” his granddaughter Colleen explained. He then set up a table to sell
burgers on a corner only a few feet from where the stand now sits. Colleen is one of many Gokeys that work at Pete’s, which is still owned and operated by the Gokey family. The tiny stand is filled with Gokeys. When I was there great-grandson Patrick Gokey was working the griddle.

The burgers at Pete’s are not your standard American hamburger. A visit to Pete’s is a must because the burgers at Pete’s are cooked in a way that I’ve never seen anywhere else. They are boiled. I know that sounds strange, but local hamburger expert and friend Todd McElwee told me once, “I like to think of them as ‘poached.’” And poached they are. Most have never had a burger quite like this.

A large, flat, high-lipped griddle or “tank” is filled with about an inch of water and a pile of quarter-pound balls of beef are dumped into the tank. In the center sits a mountain of thinly sliced onion, stewing in the hot water. The beef balls are pressed into patties that bob in the water like little boats and are flipped and ready in 15 minutes. The griddle can hold up to 70 patties and remains completely silent as the patties boil, bubble, and bob. I can only imagine that if this had been a standard griddle with that many burgers on it and no water, it would be a loud, sizzling mess.

The buns, soft white squishies from a local bakery, are not toasted. If you want onions, the grillperson scoops a bunch from the pile and transfers to a bun taking a moment to drain any remaining water. Cheese? Not at Pete’s. In 101 years a burger has never seen a slice of cheese at Pete’s. In fact, a burger with or without onions is your only option.

As you’ve probably surmised, this burger is not a big, charred, grease bomb. Quite the opposite, the burger at Pete’s is moist, ridiculously hot, and not greasy. The limp onion, soft bun, and steamy hot beef package is surprisingly tasty.
Your options for toppings are ketchup, mustard, and horseradish mustard.

Although Pete’s is small, the stand employs a dual window system to service customers. One Gokey makes burger magic at the griddle while two others work the windows, wrap burgers, and make change. The dual window setup makes for an excellent study in line dynamics. Most of the time both lines have an equal number of patient customers. But every once in a while a line grows with over 25 tourists and newbies that don’t realize there’s a second window. Without fail, a regular spots the imbalance and goes for the empty window. When I saw a regular named Ernie Moon briskly approach the empty window I asked why. “If they want to stand in line,” gesturing to the opposite window, “that’s fine with me!” He then explained, “I guess that’s what you’d call having ‘experience.’ I’ve been coming here for 60 years.” The reality is that the lines move very quickly. Assuming the griddle is full of burgers ready to go, you can step up to place your order and be walking away in 30 seconds with a steaming bag full of hamburger history.

One curious item I spotted for sale at the stand was “Pete’s Secret Ingredient,” a clear liquid in a bottle bearing the image of Pete himself. Rumor has it that years ago a Chicagoan passing through town asked Pete what he was cooking his amazing tasting burgers in and Pete told him, “Hamburger oil.” He then proceeded to sell him a gallon of water. The bottled water for sale at the stand today is a prank that still gets chuckles today but the tiny bottles of water sell for $2 with all proceeds going to a Gokey family charity that supports cancer and mental health research.

Don’t make the mistake of showing up in Prairie du Chien in the cold months looking for a burger at Pete’s. The tiny stand is seasonal and only open for six months of the year. And even during that time they are only open three days a week, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

“This stand put all the grandkids through college,” Mary told me, which numbered fifteen. “I think my grandfather would be amazed that it’s still here.” And how fortunate we are that Pete’s thrives.

 

 

T
he sauce is the draw and its ingredients are most definitely kept secret. Only a handful of insiders know the 40-plus-year-old recipe. “A bunch of restaurants claim they serve a Plaza Burger but they don’t,” grillman Mick told me with assurance. “Hey, I don’t even know the recipe!” Which is a little strange for a guy who probably made over a thousand of the thin patty wonders that week alone. Owner Dean Hetue sequesters himself in a locked room in the kitchen to concoct the creamy white, tangy sauce
the Plaza has been putting on their burgers since the mid-1960s. “All I can tell you,” Mick went on, “is that it’s a sour cream and mayo-based sauce, and the rest is a secret.” Whatever it is, this unique topping is good. Very, very good.

The Plaza is a tavern first, so the burgers at this popular watering hole seem like an afterthought. Cooked on a tiny griddle next to the long rows of hard booze, their unique arrangement of elements suggests that this is more than just another bar burger (fresh beef, wheat bun, and salad dressing). And regardless of the Plaza’s standard collegiate look and feel, the burger is anything but standard. Fresh, thin quarter-pound patties are grilled in plain sight of bar patrons, placed on incredibly soft wheat buns, and served with a dollop of the secret dressing/sauce. The presence of a wheat bun actually makes it feel like you could have one or two more, guilt-free.

The bar feels like an enormous romper room for adults, complete with endless diversions for the buzz-addled, ranging from darts to pool and with pinball and video games for the solo drinkers. There are TVs everywhere and The Plaza’s sheer size suggests that large, boisterous crowds can fill the place (with the University of Wisconsin around the corner that’s not difficult to imagine, and it’s been rumored that Joan Cusack was once tossed from the bar). But the few times I’ve been there (during lunch), I pretty much had the place to myself.