Wes' Clandestine Kitchen

Not Wes, or his kitchen

I'd heard through word of mouth that there'd be an event tonight from 6-10pm at a closed restaurant in the Mission. Like a rave? No, more like a speakeasy. Intrigued, I saved my appetite and headed toward Mr Pollo, not knowing that when I arrived I would be transported to a time reminiscent of the U.S Prohibition era during the 1920's. Except in this universe it wasn't alcohol that the 18th amendment prohibited: it was burgers.

Approaching the restaurant whose address matched the one I had scrawled onto the piece of paper in my pocket, I got the feeling something was wrong. From outside the lights appeared to be off and large black curtains hung from the windows obscuring the open door. With a bit of trepidation and a few backward glances, I entered the establishment. The space was small, seating perhaps a dozen patrons, none of whom were present. There were 4 empty seats at the counter and two tables on the sides, each able to seat 4 or 5 people. Behind the counter, a man wearing black stood with his back to me, tending to fried onions.

Hello he said, as he invited me to sit at the bar. Are you hungry, he asked. You fucking bet I am, I replied. Good, because have I got some food for you. What luck, I must have guessed the secret phrase! Soon I realized he was Wes, the veritable burger-bootlegger. He told me he was providing two burgers tonight - a breakfast burger, and the Hot Wes, his signature burger. I ordered the Hot Wes and a beer. We began to chat and he revealed himself to be a deft chef and a brilliant bartender. His affable demeanor encouraged effortless conversation and before I knew it we were talking about photography, Thanksgiving familial nudity and Marty Robbins; it was grand.

Then there was the burger. The cow must have lead a just and noble life, because my mouth was in heaven. Lightly seasoned and cooked medium rare, it tasted like happiness. Perhaps baked by a bipolar Pillsbury Doughboy, the bread was perfect; moist yet somehow flaky, soft but also crispy. My mouth morphed into a Dyson vacuum, literally inhaling the burger. I felt like a feral child let out of the basement to feed. I wanted the burger in my stomach as quickly as possible, wondering if it was really necessary to chew it; if I shat it out whole, would it be gross to eat it again? What if no one saw? What if no one knew? I could speed up the process by abruptly leaving the restaurant and grabbing some Metamucil as I hurried home. Or...and a devious smile danced across my face.

I ordered a second burger and a Metamucil milkshake.

That breakfast burger is going to taste so good in the morning!