Burgers might just be the king of all American food. And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that they’re originally from Hamburg, Germany—hence the name—but we have taken their original idea and made it our own. We perfected it in a way, so it might as well be ours. And how often is the location of a food’s invention actually the best place to get it anyway? I bet the best cheesesteak isn’t in Philly anymore. I all but guarantee the best pizza isn’t in Italy. And sure as the sun rises in the east, the best burger isn’t in Germany these days. But that leads to the question: Where is the best burger? Which place offers the fluffiest buns, the juiciest meats, and the tastiest sauces? Well, I believe I have found such a place. I didn’t discover it intentionally, mind you. No, I was on a road trip from Missouri to California and back when I stumbled onto the best burger I’ve ever eaten in my life. It’s certainly the best burger in the western United States. Maybe even in all of the world. 

I got the idea to try a burger in each town I stopped in to spend the night, not necessarily with the intention of ranking them. I just thought it would be interesting to experience what each part of the country offered. I wanted to see if the flavors and styles of burgers changed with the landscape gradually over time or if they abruptly altered from thick-cut hockey pucks into thin circles of meat smashed flat on a griddle as soon as I hopped state lines. But as the idea crystalized, I felt that the whole thing needed some semblance of structure, so I gave myself a few rules to follow to ensure it was a worthwhile endeavor. The first was that the burger place had to be local, or at least regional; that way, I was sure to get something unique. That meant no McDonalds, or Burger King, or any other transcontinental chains. I only broke this rule once when I got to California. The second rule was that I needed to at least try to order as similar of burgers as I could to keep it a fair comparison. So, ordering the fanciest-looking burger on the menu was out of the question. I was going for good old classic American-style cheeseburgers. Maybe a double if I was really hungry. The third and final rule was that I had to go in with an open mind and an empty stomach. Burgers, pretty much anywhere you can get one, are a safe bet. They don’t differ too much from one another, but even still, I wanted to save my judgments until after I had tasted them. For all I knew, a Nebraska burger was different from a Wyoming burger, which was different from a Nevada burger. So, I wiped away any kind of notions I had about what to expect when I sunk my teeth in and went into each restaurant with a neutral palate. 

At the end of my taste-testing journey across the American West, I had tried many burgers from many restaurants, but I came away from the whole thing with five notable places. The first of which is actually the very first restaurant I ate at on the trip—Cunningham’s Journal in Kearney, Nebraska. From what I remember, it was a big-ish restaurant with indoor and outdoor seating overlooking a small man-made pond with a fountain in the middle of the water, and it was right down the street from my hotel. By the time I rolled into Kearny and unloaded my bag, it was pushing dinner time, and I hadn’t eaten since that morning when I left. Because of this, I wasn’t in the mood to search too long or hard for someplace to eat. Thus, the taproom that offered 48 beers and a host of different burgers seemed as good a spot as any that night. The location was refreshing, with the pond butting right up against the back deck. It offered a different visual than what I had seen the entire way from Missouri and through Kansas. But I wasn’t there to admire the view; I was there to eat a burger. I ordered a standard cheeseburger and a pint of beer, and while the burger was good (not the best I have had, but still a solid burger), that wasn’t what made the place memorable. The memorability stemmed from the number of blind folks I watched come in the restaurant after me. I’ve never seen so many people with guide dogs and canes and sunglasses in one spot before. I assumed they must all have come from some kind of event, but none seemed to be aware of the other’s presence despite clearly knowing each other. One person would overhear another talking a few tables away and then holler out.

“Jerry! Is that you over there?” 

Followed by the other exclaiming, “Douglas? Well shoot, what are you doing here?”

That happened more than once. In fact, I think it happened six or seven times. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I looked online to see if there was a convention or anything that could explain it. Eventually, I found that Kearney has a commission for the blind and visually impaired. Still, though, I found it humorous that so many of them came to the same restaurant without knowing it until they overheard one of their friends speaking. 

The next notable spot I went to might be my favorite place on the trip, even though it wasn’t crowned the best. This might seem paradoxical, but let me explain. The Little Shop of Burgers in Casper, Wyoming, is a great restaurant. It’s got a great theme, great food, and great atmosphere. My favorite holiday is Halloween, and I’ve loved horror movies for as long as I can remember, so this place was right up my alley. It’s a horror-themed burger place with scary movie posters on every wall, burgers named after famous characters like Freddy Kruger and Jason Vorhees, and it was decorated with cobwebs and other spooky adornments. It’s small too, which I prefer with restaurants. It makes it feel cozier and more intimate, like it’s your own little spot. And the burgers were to die for. Even now, I wish The Little Shop of Burgers was the winner of this whole thing so damn badly. And for most of my trip, that was the place to beat. Unfortunately, someplace eventually won out over it, based purely on flavor. I was a little heartbroken, actually. It felt like I had found a quaint and quirky burger place that I could claim as my own and proudly tell everyone that the best burger was in Wyoming. It really is too bad. If I was going to return to any of the places I found along the way, though, this would be it. It wasn’t the best burger, but its food is still damn good, and it is my favorite. 

This seems like a good place to admit that I did break one of my rules. Well, I actually broke two. At the end of my trip, having arrived in California, I knew there was a restaurant that was indigenous to the West Coast and had a tremendous reputation. That place was In-N-Out. I knew it defied the original intent I had for the experience because it isn’t really a local spot, and peers from college who grew up in its native range had already told me so much about it. But I also felt like it would be a waste to be there and not give it a shot. After all, it has been talked up by just about everyone I know who has eaten there. They call it the best fast food burger in America, which is highly contested by locals of Texas who say Whataburger is better. I let the hype get to my head and cracked under the pressure when I hooked a U-turn and pulled into its drive-thru. My first impression was that the person taking my order seemed awfully happy for working at a fast-food joint. My second impression was that it felt a tad intrusive for them to ask if I was going to eat in my car. I was, but they didn’t need to know that. I ordered a double-double, and when I unwrapped the greasy burger and bit in, I came to a pretty quick conclusion. It was OK. I somewhat understand the hype because it feels like it’s got more character and tastes fresher than most fast-food places, but I was actually a little let down. I was expecting some kind of revelation. Instead, I was overcome with a sense of regularity. I don’t know if this sentiment is controversial or not, but it feels naughty to have actually written it down and put it out into the world. Like I have made some sort of controversial comment that could send hoards of Twitter users after me, calling for my cancellation. But I said it, and I meant it. It was only an OK burger. 

Having eaten at so many places along the way to California, I certainly had my fair share of unique takes on burgers. Some were smash burgers, some were tall and thick, so you had to squish them down just to fit them in your mouth, and some were dressed up to resemble something fancier than they actually were. And I’m happy to say that the majority of them were good. That said, there was this one place that handed me a burger that was just… off. It was at a small local Basque restaurant in Nevada. If you don’t know what, or who, the Basque are, don’t feel bad, I didn’t either. They are an ethnic group of people from a small area between Spain and France known, quite aptly, as the Basque country. They still have a sizable community in their homeland, but many of them have spread out throughout the world. A bunch of them apparently came to America in the 1850s in search of gold and ended up settling in many of the western states. They have their own language and, from what I could tell, are hardy and friendly people who are very proud of their heritage. This is why it pains me to say that the burger I got from that restaurant was nearly inedible. It was gamey and tasted very strongly of blood. I thought maybe my taste buds had forgotten what meat was, but after a few more bites, I knew that they functioned fine and were just tasting something I wasn’t used to and didn’t like. And I’m not a picky eater, either. I have eaten all sorts of weird things all over the place: fresh venison, swordfish, caviar, elk, bison, even squirrel. But for whatever reason, this burger did not sit right with me. I don’t know if it was because it was farm-to-table and they didn’t bleed it properly or if the potent flavor came from all the sagebrush the animal must have been eating, but it was off. I hate admitting that because I pride myself on enjoying just about everything I try. I wanted to like it too, but I actually ended up stopping mid-way and spitting the chunk of meat in my mouth out into my napkin and then waited patiently for the check. I didn’t have the heart to tell the nice middle-aged woman who took my order that it was terrible, so when she asked, I just told her I was full and then retreated back out to my truck to drive on. 

I am now led to the logical conclusion of this journey. I’ve talked about the entertaining, the favorite, the cop-out, and the bad. Now, the only thing left to discuss is the burger that I still dream about and try to recreate in my kitchen to this day. And that’s not a joke; I tried to recapture its deliciousness when I made burgers last night for dinner. Saying that it is the best in the world is an understatement. There really are no words to describe it. It was two thin burgers stacked on top of each other with cheese on each slice, both cooked perfectly to the point where the meat was dark brown, with some black charring in places to give it some bite. Then, layered on that was a homemade garlic aioli, lettuce, and tomatoes. All of that was nestled joyously between two freshly baked brioche buns. I’m not really sure what made it so mouth-wateringly good, but I ate it like someone was about to take it away from me. It was the perfect assembly of textures and flavors. It was juicy, but not so much that it was messy. It was smokey and meaty but refreshing. It was delicate yet robust. It truly was perfect. I’ve never had anything like it before or since. And where was it at? Well, I have thought long and hard about whether or not I even want to say. One part of me wants to keep it a secret for myself, yet the other part wants to tell as many people as will listen. I wrestled with whether I should even write this story, to be honest. It almost feels like a hunter writing an article about his favorite hunting spot in a weird way. But, eventually, my more reasonable and less selfish side prevailed, so I will divulge this information, albeit reluctantly. That burger came from the kitchen of The Grand America Hotel in Salt Lake City. I know, I know: You’re thinking, “The best burger came from a fancy hotel? How can this be?“

The best diner food—burgers and eggs and biscuits and gravy—aren’t supposed to come from fancy places. The best of them should come out of greasy spoons and hole-in-the-wall dives. At least that’s what I thought. That’s why I spent the whole time looking in those kinds of spots. I frequented half-run-down cafes and bars and local watering holes. Apparently, I was searching in the wrong places, though, because the best burger came from a gourmet chef. That fact, to me, seemed like a betrayal of everything I have been led to believe. And maybe there is a better burger out there somewhere, in some dank, dark pub or roadside bar, but I doubt it. This burger was just too good. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking, though.