Peter Luger Hamburger

The inflected words, “Peter Luger Lager” rolled off of the waiter’s tongue with the same rounded satisfaction with which the Peter Luger Burger rolled onto mine.

The Russian-accented maitre d’ had, not without practiced hesitation, allowed us a chance to be seated in the perfectly empty dining room for lunch despite our lack of reservation.  Our mildly Euro waiter, upon hearing of our plebian burger-eating ambitions, curtly countered, with not the least hint of disapproval in his mildly Euro voice, “I will get your drinks, but someone else will be your waiter”, only to return a few minutes later, “I will be your waiter after all.”

A steakhouse is a man’s retreat.  Preservation of the sanctity of the bloody bond between animal-eating brothers is, by necessity, relegated to ritual. All the symbols and significances must be in their proper place before a feast can begin in trust and tranquility.  Hence the questioning looks and probing eyes of the two men in our Peter Luger life.  So too my immediate declaration that menus were unecessary and my utterance of the code word, “hamburger”.  And once their intentions and our appetites had been exposed and signs of mutual recognition exchanged, we were served with nothing but attention, understanding, and congeniality by our hosts and we responded in kind.

Our waiter had advised that the vegetable side-dishes which I had been naively investigating were not necessary.  “Usually the hamburger, bacon, and fries are enough, I think” he said with the type of wry understated grin that would have looked obscene on an American.  But a drink was condoned, if not insinuated.

Peter Luger Lager is surprisingly delicious.  Peter Luger bacon is thick, flavorful, sumptuous, and quite unlike any other bacon I’ve ever tasted.  But there is nothing at all to say about the hamburger.  There is no use going into a protracted analysis. The Peter Luger Hamburger is perfect.

Peter Luger Hamburger