W6: (Not-so) Secret Recipes

As my previous blog posts may or may not have revealed, my brother and I worked together, on and off, at Steak and Shake. We typically didn’t see much of each other thanks to my brother’s heartless monopoly on the higher-paying night shifts, but on the odd occasion that we did share a shift, we typically treated it as an informal cooking competition.

In recent years, Steak and Shake’s menu has become a gargantuan clusterfuck of variety and decadence outdone only by, let’s say, Ben and Jerry’s—I’m only exaggerating of course, but we did serve quite a lot of Guacamole and Bacon Chipotle Steakburgers. Thanks to the combination of our restaurant’s wide stock of ingredients and the inevitable periods of customer-less boredom that comes with being open 24 hours, my brother and I were able to refine our culinary expertise during our stay. After all, the only places you can go after creating something as exquisite as a hotdog topped with French fries, chili and guacamole are either soaring new heights, or the restroom.

For the most part, we kept our experiments secret until we felt they had been perfected; few recipes managed to pass by our watchful taste buds and escape until the classless palates of our contemporaries. My brother had a number prejudices I had difficulties abiding—a hatred of nacho cheese or “chewy” wilted spinach on hamburgers, for instance. I myself have always loathed the use of Fritos on hamburgers and hot dogs. There’s something about the way the Fritos get ground up between my teeth and somehow manage to always feel stale that bothers me. Their god-awful taste bothers me sometimes as well.

The would, of course, be my one of the many fatal flaws in the tragedy that is my life. Earlier this year Steak and Shake unveiled its newest burger: the chili and cheese steakburger, a variation of the traditional double steakburger with Fritos, jalapeños, chili and cheese, and onions. It was pitched to the chain’s executives by the manager of the Steak and Shake in Pickerington. I knew the guy; I had covered night shifts for him several times and—chalk it up to fate or an elaborate, malicious cosmic alignment—the man was an utter jackass. He was exactly the kind of guy that would put Fritos on a hamburger.

And me? I treaded so closely to greatness, preparing to leap off the precipice of mediocrity, but backed off at the last moment. I may never be whole again

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Look upon your God, Babylon.