5 /5 Alduien: 1:01 p.m.
It was 97 degrees outside when we parked on a nearby bridge and started walking toward Morris Neal’s. The hot air carried the smell of the creek below, thick and earthy, with a faint tint of sewage that clung to the back of your throat. The dumpster nearby rattled as the wind pushed burger wrappers out into the open, sending them tumbling across the concrete in the slow shuffle of the Texas summer. On the side of the building, a small AC window unit hummed and dripped into the sidewalk, the runoff tracing little dark spots into the concrete. It sat right next to a walk-up order window, the kind of setup that makes you imagine summer afternoons with people leaning in for their burgers and fries. My friends had chosen this place the day before and had been talking it up like they were about to let me in on a local secret.
I walked in and was amazed at how small the place was. I felt I was transported back in time. The menu was short, simple, confident. No distractions, no gimmicks. Just burgers, fries, and the unshakable belief that this is all you need.
It was empty when we first entered. But quickly, the small room flooded with hungry regulars. People shifting in their seats. Orders flying. The receipt machine was acting like it wanted the afternoon off, spitting and stalling, and you could tell the staff was getting frustrated but still moving with the rhythm of people who have done this long enough to know it always gets fixed somehow. Built near a creek, the building leaned just enough for your balance to notice when you stood along the west wall, like you were on the Titanic’s deck mid-tip, waiting for the lifeboats.
As we waited, I noticed the man at the next table. Slowly, sweat stains began to bloom under his armpits. I couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or from the anxious anticipation of his burger. Maybe both.
The names on the orders turned into a show of their own. My friend Stevan became “Steven” like always. Blaine became “Plaine” even after spelling it out to the cashier. I didn’t bother explaining mine. I just said “Pedro.” It’s not my name, but it’s easier than watching someone try to wrestle with it letter by letter.
I started getting anxious as the minutes ticked by. 1:10. 1:20. 1:30. Finally, at 1:35, my burger arrived. I took my first bite and instantly understood why my friends had brought me here. Juicy, perfectly seasoned, with a bun that had just the right toast. The kind of burger you don’t just eat — you remember.
On my way out, the heat slapped me in the face and brought me back to reality. The AC unit kept dripping into the sidewalk like nothing had changed. Somewhere in town there was probably another burger place with a longer menu, straighter floors, and a receipt machine that worked every time. But none of them could do this.
Praise the Burger.
