Dope Burger is a terrible name for a restaurant. Unless said restaurant is actually selling dope and burgers (which Dope Burger is not), or making burgers out of weed (which Dope Burger also is not), or actually making the dopest, flyest, most bangin' burgers this side of a 2004 slang dictionary, I can't quite understand why anyone would choose this name for their business. It's just awful.
Joshua Huston
BuiltBurger owner David Makuen gives his burgers the white-plate treatment.
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BuiltBurger 217 James St., builtburger.com. 11 a.m.–4 p.m. Mon.–Fri.
Dope Burger 2228 Second Ave., dopeburgerseattle.com. 11:30 a.m.–10:30 p.m. Mon.–Wed.; 11:30 a.m.–1:30 a.m. Thurs.–Fri.; noon–1:30 a.m. Sat.; 4 p.m.–10:30 p.m. Sun.
Check out this food porn slideshow featuring Dope Burger and BuiltBurger.
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All of which would be cute and kind of funny if Dope Burger were making fantastic burgers despite the goofy name. It would be a great way to start a story about the place: "Oh, sure, the name might be totally stupid, but you'll get past it when you taste the burgers . . . "
At midnight on Friday the crowd at Dope Burger—which opened in the former Noodle Ranch space on Second Avenue in Belltown a little over a month ago under the same ownership, but with a vastly different concept—is sluggish. The takeout window in the back is clotted with party casualties looking confused by the simple menu or just staring, mesmerized by the giant TV hacked into the wall and the bright colors of the graffiti-style Dope Burger mural that bleeds out across one entire side of the room. A few tables are scattered around the narrow dining area, which, with its slick bar and thatched sacking on the ceiling, still retains a touch of its former occupant's decor. And in the kitchen, I can see the cooks dancing.
These are all good signs. The cooks still feel a bit of that opening-night juice and energy. Owner Una Kim only had the address dark for a week between closing Noodle Ranch and opening Dope Burger, in an attempt at capturing a piece of the burger zeitgeist in Belltown. And I like the energy of a concept that can colonize, slap up a little paint, open fast, and make good use of whatever recyclable material was left in the wake of the exit. It makes the new operation seem resourceful and quick.
I'm comforted by the aura of cheap beer and party liquor that hangs on the night like a caul. A few beers in, and suddenly a fat burger and some greasy fries can seem like the greatest idea ever thought. This is the notional space in which Dope Burger exists. It keeps long hours on the weekends ('til 1:30 in the morning) and exists for the simple purpose of providing ground beef and fried foods to those badly in need. That the restaurant has only been open a month doesn't bother me at all because, after all, they're only making burgers. If a burger restaurant can't perfect its method for making the one thing that anchors and centers its menu within 30 minutes of opening, there are going to be problems. At 30 days, the crew should be experts.
The burgers here are double-ground and hand-packed, made to order alongside a brief array of sides. There are three salads, milkshakes in three varieties, and some things from the fryers. Nothing more. As I sit, waiting for my "dope delux" and order of fries, it slowly dawns on me that a few things are wrong.
First, of the people eating around me, no one seems excited about their burger. Say what you will about places like Beth's or Dick's (or even Denny's, after last call on a Saturday), but there will always come a point, shortly after the food arrives, when those who've been expecting it dig in with a singular focus that is the willful absence of any and all outside stimuli. For a minute or two, all that exists is that burger, those fries, that giant omelet, whatever. At Dope Burger, that's just not happening.
Second, I am not drunk. If I were, I might not have noticed the distinct lack of enthusiasm among those who've already been served. I certainly wouldn't have cared. But when my burger and fries do arrive, I get why no one else seems altogether invested in the systematic devouring of what's in front of them; why they're talking and laughing and watching the TV, but not just eating.
The burger just isn't that good.
The dope delux is two patties, glommed together with gooey melted American cheese and dressed with the classic burger-flipper's mirepoix: tomato, onions, iceberg lettuce, and pickles. The lettuce is shredded, which is nice, and stuck to the burger via the convenient expedient of "dope sauce" (just ketchup, mayonnaise, and a little kick of spice). The tomato is thin and limp, the onions chopped, allegedly, but basically nonexistent. But the big problem is the burger itself.
It tastes like meatloaf.
Or, more accurately, it has the texture of inexpertly made leftover meatloaf, and tastes like nothing much at all. Like a vaguely burger-flavored simulacrum, maybe. Like a memory on the tongue of a burger eaten hours before.
The hand-formed patties are irregularly shaped and irregularly thick, making for some interesting gradations between mid-rare and well-as-fuck. What's more, they have the telltale lacing around their edges of a hurried cook smashing them down on a flat-top to make them cook faster—a technique called bricking. The crunchy bits of meat candy around the edges of the patty are actually where all the burger's juice (read: blood) was squished out and caramelized on the hot steel. If done correctly, this technique can make for a burger with some crispness around the edges and a certain sweetness. When done poorly (or simply to rush a burger to doneness, without any concern for the burger itself), it squeezes all the blood and liquefying fat from the meat and leaves behind a dull and flavorless lump.
