When You're Here, You're Family

This July Sunday, there was no wait at J.G. Melon. I hadn’t been since April. I will never forget how that burger tastes, the texture of the toasted bun as it grows soggier with grease, but tonight I thought it would do me well to remember.

In total, I’ve spent perhaps a day of my life loitering outside, waiting to hear the maître d’, who squints at his folded index card, call my name. On a summer weekend, in the early evening while it’s still light out, the wait is almost enough to ruin your day, provided a sweaty 6 train hasn’t done so already. It always bummed me out that those boat-shoed friends of friends got there just before me, but, even without them, the envy of everybody’s burgers and cottage fries—always order them well done—would have made the wait unbearable.

Nobody I have waited with has ever proposed walking the couple blocks to reputable enough burgers at B Cafe, BLT Prime, or even Mel’s. The idea that the wait here would be too long has never crossed my mind. Those burgers are all more than fine, but this is Melon’s.

Since I have known Melon’s, I’ve heard debates of its overratedness. The Sox-loving gym teacher and Mets-loving cool kid who complained about Derek Jeter’s lack of fielding range claimed too that this burger was overpriced and overrated. Back when $12 for a burger was eye-catching, these intellectuals whined that, at those prices, Melon’s couldn’t be so special.

Tonight, I walked in, saw a few spots, and slipped into a seat at the bar. The main bartender, whose name I have never learned, gave a gruff “evening.” I sat toward the dining room, away from the door, at the end of the bar tended by Friendly Frank.

I said hello and ordered a cheeseburger—I’m off bacon lately—medium rare, with cottage fries well done and a Sam Adams. The beer mugs always feel smaller than regulation. A few minutes after I sat down, a woman approaching 50 grabbed the next seat over, leaving one between us. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen the place empty enough to spare a barstool. She asked Friendly Frank for a menu, and, without looking up, I slid mine over, hoping to save him the effort, chuckling to myself at the idea of seeing the menu.

He thanked me and introduced me to Michelle, whom he met back when they both worked up at Doc Watson’s. I couldn’t help but ask Michelle, this regular, what drove her to ask for a menu. She’d had a burger for lunch. I asked why she would do that if she knew she was visiting Friendly Frank tonight. It had been the free staff lunch, as she works at a competitor.

I ordered a second beer, and then a third, while Michelle and I talked about horses, travel, nieces and nephews, and living single. She gave my burger enough side eye for me to understand just how seriously she had considered having a two-burger day. More reasonable, in fairness, on a holiday.

We paused our conversation when the fireworks came on the tv, and I wiped up a bit of dijon with my third-to-last cottage fry. As the fireworks wrapped up, Frank regaled me about his time at a bar on Brady Street in Milwaukee. I gushed about how much fun I’d had there in May. Michelle explained that her salad was pretty good, but she had come less to eat greens than to entertain her friend on his shift. For my part, I came for the burger that has the same pros and cons as Derek Jeter.

Once, I saw a guy in a vest spill his friend’s dirty martini. He accompanied this drink-spilling slap on the back with a loud  “Welcome to the buy side” private equity greeting. That I spent the night of the Fourth of July here making two new friends, earning a free refill or two, was a pleasant surprise.

Michelle had worked everywhere from Times Square tourist traps to hotel bars to Second Avenue institutions. She knew bartending, and she ordered the warm sliced chicken salad. Restaurants are crawling with people who think they know a right way to enjoy the food, yet they are also full of the Michelles who have seen enough in the biz to graduate from the very idea of wrong orders. Even if I’ve been going to this place since before I liked pickles, there will always be a Michelle who knows better. Maybe she even knows how much extra I’m supposed to tip for each free top up.

What to order here? The burger makes me feel whole, but Michelle endorsed the warm sliced chicken salad. The latter on condition that lunch was a pre-shift burger at PJ Clarke’s.