Five Guys

It smells intensely of grease and meat—a good sign in a burger joint, a promise of sloppy simplicity. In the years since the Murrell family opened the first location, the franchise has become a chain with outlets from New York to Florida. The cheeseburgers are what the fast-food commercials promise but never, ever deliver: two patties shingled one on top of the other and squeezed between a lightly grilled sesame-seed bun, the bottom layer of which is draped with melted cheese. It’s a wonderfully greasy handful, so much so that you almost don’t even notice that the patties themselves are not nearly as juicy as they’re reputed to be. Still, it’s the sort of old-fashioned pleasure you’re not likely to come across much anymore, even when you have occasion to venture beyond the city into the supposedly undeveloped hinterlands. The fries (consult the dry-erase board to see which state the potatoes have been shipped from that day) are boardwalk-worthy—hand-cut, skin-on, and nicely crispy; skip the ketchup and douse them with the available bottles of malt vinegar. If you’re not happy, stuffed, and appropriately emolliated when you leave, then something’s wrong in your world.
—Todd Kliman, July 20, 2004