Rolo's Revisited
The first time I had the Rolo’s burger, I cried. To be fair, I had been broken up with the night before. But it was 80% the burger. At the absolute lowest, the burger was 65% of the reason why I was crying.
I decided to go into the meal, a celebration of my friend Thom’s birthday, with a brave face and a white lie. The lie, of course, was that I was still in a relationship and that my now-former partner couldn’t make it to dinner but don’t worry, he sends his best! The last thing I wanted was to be the subject of anyone’s attention and pity, especially at a Leo’s birthday party.
Five out of the seven of us put in orders for the burger, a finite resource. Every day, the chefs at Rolo’s break down their beef delivery, which dictates how many burgers can go out in a dinner service. As it turned out, the burgers we ordered were the last five of the night. There’s a chance that this made them taste even better, which someone recently told me is indicative of who I am as a person.
It was love (and tears) at first bite. Two patties with a 75/25 blend, sauce, a pile of grilled onions and the charred bun sent me over the edge. I managed to regain my composure and continued to live the lie I constructed … at least until the next day.
Did I cry because it was that delicious? Because it was something I knew my ex would love? Because I knew this meal was the last time I could pretend to feel normal for a while? When I started ranking burgers this June, even though months had passed since I had it, I immediately placed Rolo’s at the top of my list. As my burger rolodex grew, I had a moment of uncertainty. Was it as good as I remember?
I set a date in my head to release my current ranking and challenged myself to make a return trip ahead of its publication to Rolo’s to quash my doubts. I shared my plan to essentially sprint from my Hudson Yards office to Ridgewood to secure a single bar seat with my friend Mateo, who owns my favorite spot, Bad Luck Bar. Curious about the somewhat-elusive burger, he asked to come along on my mission.
This bar, which is right by my new apartment, has become such a wonderful community center for me, honestly an extension of my living room. It felt natural to close this loop with someone at the center of the ecosystem.
We arrived, picked out a bottle of Sangiovese, ordered our appetizers (polenta bread with Calabrian chili butter and pickled carrots) and I, overeager as always, checked with our waitress on the status of the burger inventory. She promised to set two aside for us, and I quickly made sure to request no cheese on mine, which was met with a chuckle and “we’ll circle back on that.” I do acknowledge the contradiction of ordering literal bread and butter and asking for no cheese, but I won’t apologize for who I am.
We worked through our small plates, sharing stories of memorable meals. A few people recently have bestowed the title of “foodie” upon me, which I feel uneasy about. But as I spoke about all the spots I wanted to try, fun facts and “death row” meals, I started hearing what they meant. I love food - the science behind it, the experience of dining with others, cooking an extravagant meal, all of it.
At the end of last year, in my post-breakup melancholy, my appetite disappeared. I would force myself to eat toast and protein shakes. On a good day, maybe a piece of fruit. As I continued to heal and grow, I was able to enjoy food again in a way I didn’t even know I missed. More importantly, I was able to come together with others over food, cook for myself and my friends, and share this sacred act with people I care about.
Our burgers came out and I took the same bite as I did just 364 days earlier, in a much different state of mind. Blessedly, the burger was just as good. A rich patty, sweet grilled onions, a crunchy near-burnt bun and the acid from the pickled long hot pepper came together for about a dozen perfect bites.
The act of reclamation is intimidating—whether you’re talking about a song, a place or a burger, assigning new meaning to something with an established history is no small task.
Anthropologist and author of “The Omnivorous Mind: Our Evolving Relationship with Food” John Allen explains that the hippocampus, which plays a key role in emotions and forming memories, is also connected to the digestive tract. This association makes it incredibly easy for memorable meals to stay linked to moments of joy, grief, or peace. Psychologist and neuroscientist Hadley Bergstrom confirmed this in an interview with the Huffington Post: “Taste memories tend to be the strongest of associative memories that you can make.”
We see this play out in Pixar’s Ratatouille, when cynical food critic Ego is throttled through time to a sweet moment in his mother’s kitchen after taking a bite of the titular dish.
I wasn’t going into this night on an outright mission to rewire my brain. But it’s reassuring that now I can connect a bite of this top tier burger to both that low place and the warmth, belonging and optimism I’ve found in the full year between identical meals.