Brie Burger

During my fifth year in university, I lived in a dive apartment with two friends in the Portuguese neighbourhood of Montreal, Quebec. A two-block walk got us to the nearest grocery store. The store was the kind of urban market where you had to check the date on all the liquid dairy products before you put them in your basket (I learned this the hard way) and choose the right day of the week to shop for produce. But like most stores in Quebec, the worst cheese was better than most you can get in the surrounding provinces and states.

When I went shopping for groceries, I often passed by the cheese section on my way to the cash registers to pick up a hunk of brie cheese. It went on the top of my basket, and when I loaded up my grocery bags for the short walk home, the brie remained in my hand. With one hand carrying the sundry foods as I strolled the two blocks to our apartment door, the other hand held that half-unwrapped chunk of deliciously sour and creamy cheese most often reserved for party plates. A quarter-pound slice cost about $5 Canadian ($3-4 US at that time)--and it lasted barely two city blocks.

I really enjoy brie cheese. I know that it's one of the most fattening and cholesterol-laden dairy products on the planet. But that flavour--firm creamy lovin' hiding under that tough sour shell--keeps me coming back any chance I can get. And the opportunity to partake of that marvelous milk product always takes me back, at least for a moment, to Montreal days and the grunge of college city living. Back then, a hunk of brie on the walk home made the whole week worth it.

Imagine my elation when I see "Brie Burger" as an item on the menu at a burger joint. My mind tried to put the flavours together in my head, but got lost in the excitement. My salivary glands quivered in anticipation.

We had taken a friend's recommendation and hunted down a burger joint in Richmond, Virginia called Carytown Burgers and Fries during last week's sojourn in that city. Here's a picture of the facade, nestled into the backside of a block on Cary Street, an historic and ritzy shopping district in centre-city Richmond:

We arrived at 11:00 in the morning, just when the grill was getting fired up. The staff looks like a bunch of college students--unconcerned with the aesthetics and formalities normally found in top-ranking restaurants--who had decided to open a burger joint. The restaurant, two stories of the rear end of what looks to be a reclaimed late-19th-century building, has ramshackle decor so rushed that it's endearing. It's as if the proprietors were so eager to make their burgers available, they cut every corner they could on interior design. The dining room (upstairs from the cramped kitchen and ordering area) had a coat of French's-mustard-yellow paint on walls and ceiling, with long drips dried in place. The windows, one which is pictured here, had accents of ketchup on the yellow sash:

As soon as I saw "brie burger" on the menu, I put it down. Why should I look further? My gut instinct choice did not disappoint me. Or, more accurately, the friendly, highly skilled chefs of Carytown Burger did not disappoint me. My burger, a tasty piece of quality meat in itself, carried a generous load of my favourite cheese. Here you can catch a glimpse, next to our crispety crunchety onion rings and "famous fries":

Note the vinyl picnic tablecloth and the vintage mid-century Coca-Cola poster peeking out behind Sara, both adding to the strange minimalist ambiance. 

I never would have thought to put brie on a burger, so I am thankful to the chefs at this award-winning establishment for introducing me to this heretofore undiscovered melange of flavour. All the best results of a cow put together. Amazing! Sure, I've got to eat vegan for a month to bring my cholesterol down again, but it was worth it. If you ever find yourself in Richmond, go to Carytown Burgers and Fries. You'll discover why it's famous.

emrys