Kuma's Corner

I'm really depressed this morning. First of all, it's snowing again, which it has done virtually every day this year. I've been at work for two hours now, and my body is telling me it's only 9 a.m., and thanks to a lovely little bout of insomnia last night I didn't get to sleep until close to 2:00 (new time). But then there's the news about Kuma's.

It's the end of an era. About a year ago, a bunch of my friend and I started frequenting this little corner bar in Avondale. It was a tiny little place with a nice patio in the back, an impeccable beer list, and quite possibly the best burgers I've ever had in my life. They played wonderfully loud heavy metal music all the time, and all the burgers were named after metal bands. After the Pitchfork festival last year, the staff told us that Mastodon had been in for stints of six hours at a time getting loaded and eating Mastodon burgers (BBQ sauce, cheddar cheese, bacon, and frizzled onions). And for as great as this bar was, we could show up any time, day or night, and have no problem getting a table. They don't take reservations, but last year I showed up on my birthday in the middle of the dinner hour with a dozen people and it took us about five minutes to put together the necessary table-space. The staff knew us on sight and took care of us, and it was pretty much just an all-around perfect situation.

But, as with all good things, word started to get out. The heavily inked regular crowd started to get diluted by more and more guys who, from the looks of them, probably aren't into many bands heavier than the Dave Matthews Band.* Waits for tables got longer. Then a few months ago, they were on the local PBS restaurant review show "Check, Please!" Since then it's been impossible to get a table in less than an hour unless you show up during business hours or close to midnight. I've taken to getting my orders to go, which is really just a travesty: if you're going to eat a burger called Municipal Waste, you should be in a place where there's a reasonable expectation that you're going to be listening to Municipal Waste.**

Now the hammer is really falling. This month they're going to get a write-up on Playboy's website, which will coincide with the Zagat Survey naming them one of the top three (if not The Best) burger joints in the country. Of course, I'm happy for them that they're so successful, but when I see the waitresses looking like they're about to grab the chef's knives and start stabbing all the customers because they're so overworked, and when I think about the prospect of how impossible it will be to get in there once my beloved little metal bar becomes a damn tourist attraction, I can't help but grieve.



*I'll admit that I'm not the toughest guy out there, I don't have any tattoos, and I generally look like a big nancy. But I've been in more than my share of mosh pits, dammit. I've gotten stomped, beaten, bloodied, and sweated on enough times that I think I've earned the right to have my eardrums pummeled while I eat a half-pound burger with pulled pork and bacon on top of it (the Led Zeppelin burger).

**The Municipal Waste was a special last month, and it was only sort of a burger. It was a hamburger patty served in a bed of chili-mac, and it was covered with another layer of cheese and topped with giardiniera peppers. There was no room for a bun. It was magnificent.