Robert’s looked like they’d done the least to change it since 1926. It was just a well-worn shack of a place. A TV hung in one corner, playing The Price Is Right. The man behind the counter eyed me in the way you do when you own a place that doesn’t get many tourists. His son, no more than 12, poured ice into a cooler and answered the phone. I asked for an onion burger, and he nodded and got to work on the griddle, throwing a Mrs. Baird’s extra-thin bun on top of the sizzling meat and onions.
The actual burger was a marvel, the steam from the onions and the bun pouring out around the sides, the onions broken down and coagulating with the cheese, the meat griddled perfectly. The onions -- so many onions -- crisscrossed through the meat like an intricate grid, snaking out the ends. Though I knew I shouldn’t, I ate the entire thing happily.
“How was it,” the cook asked, as he cleared the plate, but he didn’t seem to wait for a reply before turning back around. He already knew.