I woke up in the middle of the night and forgot where the bathroom was… Of course, my body decided not to be tired again until after Wife left to work and I had to leave the hotel room so I could work uninterrupted by housekeeping. It’s hard living in someone else’s space. I miss home. A greasy burger will help that! Lucky for me Wife works just up the way from the hotel and is usually down for a hamburger and fries. We hit the road in search of home with no direction, no destination.

Whichever Way The Wind Blows

A quick drive, a few random turns and a couple passes later –not there; too sketchy; not sketchy enough; that one says “vegetarian option” on the window– and we’ve arrived for dinner at a storefront diner called Mytiburger, pronounced “Mighty Burger.” It’s sufficiently sketchy, and the outside smells like french fries. We walk in and are greeted by a lovely pair of middle-aged ladies who… well, they look like they smell like french fries too! Authentic!

We glance over the menu and try to strike up a conversation with the French fry ladies, who are having none of it. Wife inquires about the Frito Pie, which I learn she’s never had. Well! That’s something we shall have to remedy, now isn’t it? A couple of awkward glances later and we complete our order: A pair of classic Mytiburgers, a third pound of beef served with mayo, lettuce, tomato and pickle on a toasted bun. OH! And bacon! Got to have that. Wife orders French Fries while I opt for the Tater Tots. We split an order of Frito Pie, Fritos topped with chili and covered by melted cheddar cheese. Mistress French Fry, a title I granted to the nobler of the two ladies, jots down our order on the side of a brown paper bag along with my name. We’re sent along our way with assurances that our food will be ready shortly.

Mmmmm Greasy…

We find a table in the corner of the mostly empty dining area to perch and chat for the handful of minutes it takes for our order to be called; mostly talk about home. Eight minutes or so later I hear my name called: not a moment too soon. I walk up to the counter and retrieve our sack, partially soaked through from grease. This is gonna be good! The sandwich is exactly what we needed: tasty but not astounding. I’m not going to write home to mom and sing its praises. The patty was a decently sized mound of frozen beef, lightly seasoned and seared to done on a buttered flattop griddle. The slight char from the grill made it yummy. The bun was freshly toasted, the bacon was nice and crispy and the vegetables were fresh and cool, a welcome contrast to the warm bread and patty. Our sides were your standard configuration of frozen potato, fried in hot oil and served piping hot. They were unseasoned, but the collection of sauces at the tables along with shakers of salt and pepper made them pair just fine.

A Little Bit Of Home

I left Mytiburger feeling more human. The old Michigan greasy-spoon diners I remember have always been something of a staple for me. I grew up just down the street from the local favorite. Cheap burgers, crinkle-cut fries, fried mushrooms: all the things that were synonymous with “a special night out” for a struggling family of three. I’m a bit older now but still feel warm and safe when I can bury myself between two toasted buns (giggity). I appreciate those places like Mytiburger that still dot the map: the iconic American roadside burger joint, checkered tile, and booths built into the walls. Sometimes you need nostalgia more than excitement. That said, on a scale of tip-the-hat (low) to shank-the-chef (high), the Chef and crew will all be alive and well tomorrow. I got exactly what I wanted. It wasn’t anything special, just well timed. Sleep soundly, Myti folk. No violence from me this time.  At most, a feigned punch as we pass on the street. Two for flinching.

Chef Shanker

Keeping the world in balance.
Have you ever eaten something so delicious it made you angry?