Why God Made Cows

Today, I went to Farren's. It was the defining meal of my life. I ate the most delicious hamburger that I have ever eaten; it was a deeply moving and spiritual experience. I have eaten hamburgers all across this great nation, from Hawaii to Boston, and I have never eaten a burger as delicious as this. It was as if there was a communing of souls, the cow that gave that meat willingly abandoned its idyllic existence atop some lush green hillside to provide me with the most exquisite pleasure I have ever known.

Or something.

While not, perhaps, the most exquisite pleasure I have ever known, it was a damn fine burger. I ordered the Double Russell, two half-pound patties of succulent beef, topped with bacon, sauteed mushrooms, and a homemade bleu cheese dressing. The Russell ordinarily comes with a jalapeno cheese slice, but always faithful to my dearest loves, I substituted a slice of delicious Wisconsin cheddar.

My own personal Kosher law dictates that bacon is only acceptable on a Club Sandwich. For the Russell, I cast aside my customs; I have found a new religion. In Epicurian splendor, I will lie forever atop a heather-soft pile of the hand-cut French fries that I tasted this evening.

Or something.

Farren himself is rumored to be a retired professor. I don’t doubt it for a moment. Such culinary craftsmanship and pride of work bespeaks a wisdom that a man could only gather by a lifetime of scholarship. He was a real Hugh Akston, the fictional philosopher-turned-cook, from Atlas Shrugged. Farren is a genius and a poet.

Or something.

Bottom-line: Damn fine burger.
Jessica, Amy, and Honey Lou, the Bard of Beanwater all agree.

In fact, the burger was so good that I am going to apply for graduate school down here so I can stay near Farren’s: the home of my sweetest dreams.

Or something.

And it is really something.