The rise and fall of America

America’s undying love for the hamburger.

I recently read two articles about McDonald’s that piqued my interest. The first featured a curious and simple formula to illustrate the financial and social decline of America. The formula equates the price of a Big Mac to the minimum hourly wage in 1980 compared to 2022. It divided the hourly rate by the price of the Big Mac to arrive at the crucial data point. The BM’s per hour quotient.
Follow me? No? Okay. Let me explain.

In 1980 the minimum hourly wage was $3.10. The price of a Big Mac in 1980 was 0.50 cents. The BM’s per hour was 6.2. In 2022 the minimum hourly wage was $7.25, and a Big Mac was $8.00 resulting in a BM’s per hour of 0.91. I am no economist, but that number does not look good. And yes, if you ate 6 Big Macs in one hour, your next hour would be spent in cardiac arrest awaiting imminent death. Even taking into consideration inflation, it is a sad indictment that in America, one hour's work won't pay you enough to consume one shitty, wet, Big Mac.

The McDonald’s financial food metric is as relevant as any other data on the American economy. Forget about useless information like the GDP, Inflation rate or Employment data released every quarter by that old relic, the Federal Reserve Bank. America needs to get creative! How many sugar laden McFlurrys need to be consumed to increase the average American’s productivity rate? Is eating a sausage McMuffin with an extra patty every day an indicator of inter generational wealth? Or bowel cancer?

McDonalds has always been a universal symbol of America. The dominant, successful America. The “Golden Arches” a hallmark of America’s supremacy. Globalisation was McDonaldisation. It’s ubiquity a tacit reminder of America’s strength, omnipotence, and influence around the globe. The Happy meal supersized for a taste of the saccharine McAmerican Dream. But now, like America, McDonald’s is an irrelevant decaying institution: a corporate predator responsible for generational obesity, poor health outcomes, abuse of employee rights and questionable business practices.
Sales are dropping at President Trump’s preferred restaurant chain, but McDonalds has pivoted and found its saviour. The touch screen.

According to an article by Riddhesh Patel titled, “Tap, Order, Spend More,” he declares that the touch screen will prompt you to spend up to 25% more, by guilt-free upsizing. The theory is that ordering from a person brings social pressure, but when it is just you, the touchscreen, and your cravings, you are liberated. No judgement. No accusatory sideway glances. You are completely free to indulge in the digital buffet of saturated fat, sugar, and salt; all of it is at your chubby, bloated, diabetic fingertips.

I thought I would test the theory and visit a McDonalds in downtown Manhattan for lunch. The first thing I notice is the vacant stares. A zombie trance. Junk food junkies. There are four construction workers, a few students, and a young mother all just silently staring at the number board. Waiting for their number. You don’t eat at McDonald’s; you buy a dopamine band-aid; a hit of processed food laden with chemicals, fat, salt, and sugar, that sends pleasure signals to your brain and fatty deposits to your arteries. The screens are health slot machines; the ultimate prize: cardiovascular disease. Eat fast, die young and leave a chemically bloated corpse.

I order a cheeseburger and fries and do not feel liberated at all. I feel defeated. McDonald’s is not a place to eat; it is a place to surrender. Somehow, I resist the many prompted options of “Best value Combo Cumulative Calories Meal,” and a “Double Big Mac.” I walk up the stairs and sit down at one of the ketchup-stained white laminate tables. The sterile lighting is that of a pathology lab and everything I touch is greasy; the chairs, the table, the burger wrapper, the napkin dispenser all cling to me like a drunk ex-girlfriend.
The space is bleak and miserable. It is so inert, so utterly lifeless, so bereft of life that any self-respecting suicide bomber would storm out in frustration.

The “meat” in the cheeseburger has a pungent whiff of E.Coli, its greying edges give it the appearance of a wafer-thin cow pat. There is smattering of raw onion, a molten yellow glue that once identified as cheese, and a minute smear of tomato sauce with the acidity of a car battery. The spongy chemically enhanced bun could be fresh or nine weeks old, it’s impossible to tell, which I guess is the point. The fries are edible, not crisp, but not flaccid, lukewarm, laden with salt.

I have one bite, throw it all in the bin and walk south in search of a decent burger. Luckily, I am in America and there are a lot of burgers to choose from. Shake Shack, In-N-Out, Burger King, Wendy’s, and P Diddy’s all-time favourite, Five Guys. There is one place that is superior to all of these, a beacon of hope. It is not a chain, it has one location - 51 MacDougal Street in SoHo. It is called Hamburger America.
Of course it is.

The handsome corner site is hard to miss with its exposed brick and large windows, emblazoned with the large yellow on black logo, all outlined in a glossy black trim. Inside the space, the walls are lined with framed reviews and various photos of the owner George Motz known by many as the Hamburger Whisperer having written books, made documentaries and even taught at NYU, about hamburgers.
The retro diner aesthetic includes counter seating, yellow booths and fixed stools along the wall. The restaurant is full of delighted customers, laughing and chatting all busily wolfing into the burgers, fries and milkshakes with so much gusto and enthusiasm that you would swear it’s the first time they have ever seen a hamburger, let alone eaten one.

The sunken open kitchen is humming with the gurgle of fries being dunked in vats of bubbling oil, the hot plate sizzles with seared smashed meat patties, topped with slices of American cheese. Two steps above the kitchen there is a cheery person ready to take your order. No touch screen. No algorithmic gluttony. Just a pleasant, lovely human who gives you a number on a stand, tells you to grab a seat and says, “We’ll bring your food right out” At Hamburger America no one supersizes you or your order.

Six minutes later and I am eating a double Classic Smash Burger. Two flattened patties of minced chuck meat are gloriously golden and crisp, the rubbles of meat are layered between a slice of barely melted American cheese, crunchy pickles, caramelised onions and swipe of mustard. The buttered golden bun is soft and slightly pliable but structurally strong enough to support the excellent ingredients. This is a particularly good hamburger. The Zohran Mamdani of hamburgers. A satisfying hamburger that has texture, robust flavour and integrity. A hamburger you can trust. The fries are crisp and golden and suitably salty, the iced tea refreshing and thirst quenching.

At Hamburger America you can also indulge in Diner classics such as tuna salad, egg salad, peanut butter jelly and grilled cheese sandwiches; but I really need to go back for the Fried Onion Burger, the meat patty is cooked using an Oklahoma technique, grilled with a heap of paper-thin sweet onions embedded into the patty giving it an evocative sweetness.

Hamburger America has not only reawakened the American people’s undying love of the hamburger, but it has given them hope. It has reminded them at its absolute best America can be kind and hospitable. America can be engaging and warm.
America can be a touch stone of shared humanity, not a greasy touch screen of greed and indifference.

Hamburger America
https://www.hamburgeramerica.com/