PJ Clarke's Lincoln Center: A copy is never as sharp as the original.

63rd St and Broadway

Overall: Let me start this review by saying that I am hesitant to write a review of a satellite location.  The place is a New York City staple— I feel as though writing about anything other than the original could be construed as heresy.  But I will do it, because it is in the name of burgers.  That said, please treat this as a reflection upon the Lincoln Center location only.

And yes, I do admit that it is reprehensible that I have lived in this city for four years and have not yet been to the original PJ Clarke’s.  Readers (all four of you), please know that I am sorry.

“Hi, I’m….”: “Bill, this is my wife Cheryl, and her brother John, we’re visiting from Chicago!”

It is a tough crowd about which to make generalizations, I would assume, due to its proximity to Lincoln Center.  Many patrons are clearly not from New York.  The plethora of hotels in the area lends itself to creating a “fake” NYC-themed establishment (read, an Irish pub in Beijing without a McCarthy in sight).  The Grizza insists that it is modeled after the East Side location.  I will have to take his word for it (for now, anyway).

If you can, get a table downstairs.  If you squint, it could be 1930, and there could be a thick cloud of cigar smoke, the sounds of an upright piano, and a leggy cigarette girl, all accentuated with the clinging and clanging of glasses filled with bathtub gin.

Sounds like a fun time.

I’m Here, What do I see? : At this particular location- tourists.  And a lot of them. Older single ladies that we “in the biz” might call, ahem, cougars, are hanging around the bar.  So, if you are feeling up for a Mrs. Robinson-esque encounter, come here and hang at the bar for a bit.  The Grizza thought about it, trust me.

The scene is a 1930’s New York pub: dark wood, soft lighting, and a tin ceiling.  A long bar is the centerpiece of the restaurant.  An oyster/clam bar is tucked away in a corner behind the bar.  For a tourist trap, it is a nice place.  A little noisy upstairs, but that’s what all the tourists come for—the energy that only New York has to offer.

The Good Stuff: I have been hearing about this burger for a long time.  It has, in fact, been uttered in the same sentence as JG Melon.  Needless to say, the expectations were high.  The burger arrived, and I felt good about it at first glance.  Much like the reigning king, the burger arrived on a small glass plate, but PJ’s is accompanied by a pickle wedge instead of the slices.  Where’s the onion?  Strangely enough, it’s underneath the burger.  Not sure why it was there.  Maybe I am oblivious to some age-old tradition involving the onion slice being below the burger.  If so, I don’t care and I think it’s stupid (take that, age-old traditions that I don’t know about!).  Anyway, that’s a trivial detail, I suppose.

Back to the main event.  The burger does have good hand-feel, which is always a plus.  But the hamburger patty was small.  Arguably, a little too small.  As with JG Melon, the meat was coarsely ground and was properly seasoned, but for some reason, the taste got lost along the way.  Where did it go?  I have a theory: the thinness of the patty does not allow for the development of a good caramelized layer without making the inside of the burger sawdust.  If the patty were a little bit thicker, that crunchy sweet crust would develop and we’d have a totally different story.  But alas, we do not.  The burger was good, but not great.  It was not especially memorable; it ended, and I was okay with that.

NB: the fries are great—like old-style McDonald’s fries, before the whole trans-fat, “let’s not make people responsible for their own decisions by making junk food healthy” debacle.

To the east side.  I’m not done with you get, PJ.

Rating (out of 7 cows): 4/7

– burgerboy. 6/3/07