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 brothers, the five guys of the name, first opened a glorified meat stand in Alexandria, little if anything has changed at the original—an adjoining sit-down area is the only tangible proof that time has passed. The franchise, though, is now a multi-outlet chain. 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