On Tuesday, Eater published an article slamming J.G. Melon, the iconic Upper East Side restaurant. Alongside describing the establishment’s signature burger as “a dry, bland, hockey puck of a burger” and writing that “it tastes less like real beef and more like something forged from rehydrated tree bark and marinated asphalt,” the author Ryan Sutton laments the brusque manner of the waiters, the lack of a credit card machine, and the prices.
Clearly, he is missing the entire point of J.G. Melon. In the article he notes that Town & Country called J.G. Melon’s burger the best burger in New York City a few years ago. And to many of us, it is. This isn’t because their burger will be the most incredible one you’ve ever eaten (though it is always satisfying), nor because its toppings are revolutionary (but, to be honest, does a burger really need anything more than cheese and pickles?).
It is because of what J.G. Melon represents. For those of us who grew up in New York City and have watched Manhattan transform over the past decades—rows of quirky tenements knocked down and replaced with gleaming glass towers, our favorite diners and pizza parlors shut in favor of juice bars and cafes serving overpriced avocado toast — J.G. Melon is akin to Proust’s Madeleine. And has anyone ever cared about the texture, flavor, and price of that Madeleine?
This is not to say that the food at J.G. Melon is bad, as Sutton maintains. In fact, it is remarkably good. As Brahm Wachter, a New York City native who has trained at the International Culinary Center explains, “J.G. Melon consistently delivers one of the finest burgers in the world. The smell of the beef can only be matched by its incredible flavor, which has never changed in my 15 plus years of visiting the establishment. It is delicately crispy on the outside, it has a soft buttery taste with a juicy center, and it finishes with notes of sweetness. I’ve tried to replicate it in my own kitchen but can’t."
J.G. Melon’s burger, best served with a martini.
The author declares the staff is impolite and he complains that he struggles to make his way to the bar. He is clearly not a regular, because as any New Yorker will know, you have to push your way to the back of the restaurant, find the host, and give them your name. And if you stand in front of the bar staring at your phone, you won't be served.
And rightly so. Here, you have to look up from your text messages and interact with the staff. You have to call the bartender's name, order your bloody Mary, or your martini and wave a $20 bill across the bar to get change. It is these personal interactions that so many of New York's restaurants are missing today.
J.G. Melon is the only restaurant in New York City where I am greeted by a hug from the host—even though I have never tipped him. It is the only restaurant where I know I will always be able to get a table, instead of being dismissed by an impervious hostess who tells me that the restaurant is fully booked, or that I won’t be able to be seated for two and a half hours. Sure, there is usually a wait at J.G. Melon, but it is spent drinking and chatting with the bartender Frank about the Brontë sisters. If you ask for extra cherries in your Manhattan, he will painstakingly line the entire rim of your glass with them and present it to you like a golden goblet.
J.G. Melon’s grilled cheese, another classic.
Sutton even complains about the length of time it took to get his check. How could a restaurant critic think of this as anything but a pleasure? Unlike in Europe, we are constantly rushed out of restaurants in New York. Plates are swept away before our companions have finished their meals, and checks are dumped on the table, sometimes even before a dessert menu is proffered.
At J.G. Melon, they don't mind if you stick around and talk with your friends as you finish the dregs of your martini. They never rush you, even though there are customers who are waiting for your table. Can anyone really find fault in that? All I know is that when I grow old, I hope I will be sitting at the bar at J.G. Melon and eating a hamburger. Like Proust's Madeleine, the burger will recall memories for me.
But they will not be my own memories—they will be memories of my city.
