You gotta give it up for Grease Burger Bar. . . the name tells you everything you need to know about this Clematis Street newbie.
There's a bar, a big one, about half a city block long -- all dark, hulking wood lit by bare bulbs hanging from meathooks suspended from the ceiling. There are burgers, 10-ounce patties as thick and big around as truck tires -- eight different kinds, ground fresh daily and hand-shaped, with stuff like cheese and bacon and onions and even a fried egg to customize them with until you can't fit your gums around the thing.
And there is grease. Bite into one of these bad boys and the juices and molten fat dribble all over your chin and pool on your paper-covered plate. But you know what they say: fat = flavor. And Grease's burgers are pretty good, at least if you order them medium-rare, which the kitchen hits with admirable consistency. (If you order a burger anything past medium you deserve that mouthful of beef-infused sawdust.)
You can order your burger with chili, green it with organic, free-range beef from Brandt Farms in California (the priciest patty on the menu at $11.95; the others range from $7.95 to $10.95). Or wuss out with a turkey or veggie burger. (But why?)
Of course, any burger demands fries, and at Grease these come in portions large enough to feed three, gorge two or send one into cholesterol shock. They're skinny and crisp, with a suspiciously crunchy coating that suggests Sysco's Imperial Phantom Plus frozen french fries or some facsimile thereof. But they're fried and potatoes, and accompanied by a splot of catsup and a fat, greasy burger. What's more Amurkin than that?