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| - Never have I felt the need to log on to a website and post a scathing review of a restaurant, and yet, here I am, an empty greasy paper bag on the passenger seat and sitting in a parking lot pecking away at the painfully small iPhone keyboard stuck in portrait mode on the yelp app.
Don't get me wrong, I knew exactly what I was in for when I stepped through the doors to the chain restaurant that, while proclaiming itself "one of the best burgers in Toronto" also depends on converting mass quantities of raw beef into cooked disc-shaped food items. I was not expecting a gourmet burger, heck, I wasn't even expecting a great burger. I was hoping at best to overpay for a decent burger and perhaps a milkshake of some sort.
However, the noun "disc" ended up referring not only to the shape of the burger but also unfortunately is the best descriptor of its texture, consistency, and flavour. Contrary to the sign at the cash, this burger was *not* cooked to 160F, or at least stayed on the grill for a good 2 or 3 minutes after achieving that supposed nirvana of internal hamburger temperature, straight into a charred, rubbery, cottony puck.
To be fair, I was cheap and only got the small burger, it is quite possible that they are better with the standard 5.6 oz burger. I will concede that if proven otherwise.
As a side, in a rare moment of sheer unbridled optimism, I ordered the poutine. It wasn't long before I was reminded of why I normally stick with cynicism, especially with the TO fast food scene.
Fries are your standard NY Fries, skins on, faux-home-fries. When the girl took out a scoop and started to put some sort of cheese product on them, my heart fluttered momentarily-- could it really be? Real cheese curds??? As she glopped on a gravy concoction, my mind was racing: NY Fries must know about cheese curds... Why would she have scooped them out? They must be....
Well all my hopes were mercilessly crushed by the sheer weight of the Ontarian concept of poutine with Capitalism sitting perched on its shoulders. This were not cheese curds suspended in the room temperature school cafeteria grade gravy. It was a mozzarella stick chopped into little cubes. I felt like I was in some sort of culinary horror flick, but instead of wanting to yell "DON'T OPEN THE DOOR" at my Schrodingerian past self, I realized that as much as I felt the need to indict the owners and operators of South St burger, it really was me that was the villain in this overplayed B-movie.
Well at least the chocolate milkshake was ok.
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