I am a die hard carnivore and love a good burger.
Raised in a place where no burgers were served and steaks, loins, ribs, and chops were not on rotation, any burger was a good burger for me.
Until recently.
Instead of dwindling, my aging palate made a mistake and perked up starting to distinguish between rare and medium rare, dry aged blend and supermarket mix, sear and none of it. Then it discovered buns, toppings, seasoning, distribution. All in all, the experience got spoiled.
It was my birthday. The date was that some consider the start of golden years and others refer to as the age of early maturity. No matter how you look at it, the number was a good excuse to try one of the best — or was it the best? — burger in town: The Black Label at Minetta Tavern.
During our NYU days, Tom and I lived right around the corner from this restaurant and could easily walk in, as we did on a few occasions, without any previous thought.
On the big day, our plan was to stop by for a burger and move on to other birthday festivities.
As I was getting ready, something told to me to check the reservation situation at Minetta. And good thing it did! Times change. For that day, every single slot was booked. I checked the next day, and the next, and the next weekend, and the weekend after next. Same — no cigar. We changed plans.
Compulsive that I am, this reservation obstacle got my attention more than the burger. I was on a mission. Checking consistently for a few days, I discovered that the place was fully booked till the end of the month besides some lunch times and slots after 1045 PM.
In a few days, it clicked that reservations open on the morning of the coordinating date one month ahead. I picked a few Fridays that worked for us and marked my calendar to set an alarm. I had already learned that by 7 AM, all reasonable time slots were gone.
Our weekdays start pretty early and finally one day I woke up to a 5 PM table available for two. Everything from 530 PM to 1045 PM was already taken as usual. We got in!
According to the restaurant website, at Minetta, a “Parisian steakhouse meets classic New York City tavern” and, with that, calls for a smart casual dress code.
Casual we are easy. Smart — not so much. But with a little effort, we pulled off the smart part. I even dug out a dress!
Since it was a raincheck for my birthday, on Resy, I marked the visit as such. A whiff of guilt flew over when I saw Tom working on a straight face while the maître d’ was wishing me a happy birthday. I was already five weeks and four days older.
Despite the occasion, they placed us at the table closest to the front door, back to back with the hostess podium. Not smart enough, I thought.
The restaurant had two rooms. The front streetcar shaped one had the bar and a few booths on one side and a row of thriftily packed tables on the other. On my obligatory trip to the bathroom — I never miss a NYC restaurant’s bathroom, they can be artsy and interesting — which door was politely held for me by a staffer, I took a peek at the back room. It was not too large either and its space was also utilized to the last inch.
Our end table in the very front of the house corresponded to the end curve of the couch and we found each other not face to face but at a ninety degree angle. A bit awkward but not that bad when you are comfortable being close to each other.
We settled in our audience-like side by side seats facing the same direction. In no time, the theater of the “first come first serve, no reservations” bar presented us with a solid wall show of not overly smart butts and groups of people congregating in between, waiting for their turn on a stool.
On the bright side, it was a great people watching position and I am always a fan.
When the scene at the bar became a little too lively, the maitre d’ skillfully leaned over our table to redirect Tom’s attention to the picture on the wall behind us. This unusual interest to our casual personas surprised me but nevertheless I joined her invitation to check out the print of Sophia Loren examining the cleavage of Jayne Mansfield.
What can I say about our night? The food was very good. The old times wooden paneling, tiled ceiling vibes were great. Our server’s ecommendations were spot on and not overbearing or pushy. The delivery was quick but at no moment we felt rushed. The service was good. Usually a long white apron and black vest and tie on a server go together with we’re-hotter-than-you attitude. At Minetta, it was not too condescending. A little wankery? And who is without sin?
We split a special of whole shrimp with chorizo. I was cautious about it at first: chorizo can be so overpowering. Not here — just the right film thin cure over a seafood flesh.
Tom had Ricotta Cavatelli with truffles, maitake mushrooms, arugula pesto, and pine nuts. When I saw the amount of truffles shaved over his pasta, for a moment, I began to doubt my burger choice. But only for a moment.
And the burger. Was it the best? It was very very very good — plump and juicy. Maybe the best. Cooked to perfection rare as I like it which almost never happens, with a perfect sear, amazingly seasoned, it was funky to nearly blue cheese level. Caramelized onions were so caramelized that they were just a topping of umami jam and not a stringy nuisance. And there was no cheese! I am not a fan of cheese on a burger. To me, it adds an unnecessary heaviness and takes away the flavor of the beef. I liked the burger so much that forgoing the steak knife placed next to my plate I went all in the primal way.
Why hesitation about calling it the best? Because these days, there are so many different very excellent burgers out there and who am I with my limited experience to pinpoint the best.
A word on the bread. I would hang out at the bar just for that bread: crust, crumb, and all.
Speaking of the birthday. I did get an ice cream treat with a candle. On the house. For a moment, that cloud of guilt reappeared on my horizon but a $200+ check swiftly cleared it away.