What Boston may lack in parking spots, it makes up for in burgers. They’re absolutely everywhere. They arrive on puffy kaisers at no-nonsense pubs, dabbed with truffle mayo at spiffy bars, or preciously presented in grass-fed wads at conscious counters. This must be a lousy place to live for someone who dislikes burgers. Suffice it to say, that person is not me.
As a beef-oriented fella on the go, I eat burgers all the time: coming home from the gym, before a long night out, for lunch, for dinner (a few times for breakfast). I like ’em cheap, expensive, grilled, griddled, ironic, ambivalent, and, in darker times, when a McDonald’s is my only option, platonic and artificial all at once.