Let me just get something off my chest right off the bat: I’ve never eaten SPAM®. Nearly old enough to run for President of this great nation, and yet that I’ve never enjoyed even an itty bitty bite of it’s spiced hammy goodness. That, my friends, will soon change.
See, this morning, my friend Aaron told me about a new burger joint among the food carts in downtown Portland, place called Brunch Box. In Aaron’s words (and my emphasis):
Yesterday I had a $5 burger which was a burger/lettuce/tomato/onion/condiments sandwiched between two grilled cheese sandwiches (instead of a bun)After the CPR, it was great.
Clearly, my friends, I had to drop everything, head down to the carts, and bask in its greasy glory.
Behold, the Brunch Box’s YOUCANHASCHEESEBURGER:
You know it's gonna be good when the grease smears the ink on the wrapper.
Glorious.
The sacrifices I make for you people, taking this picture when I could have been throwing the fucking thing down my throat already. You OWE me, America.
Diet Coke - Because I'm trying to lose weight.
First impression? NOM NOM NOM NOM fucking NOM. Delicious.
Burger itself was tasty, even if it was a little smaller than you might expect. Didn’t even fill up the bun. But who cares when the rest of that “bun” is two fucking grilled cheese sandwiches?
The rest of the menu sounds pretty damn good, too:
And when you all decide to pay me back for my years of being completely fucking awesome by taking me here for lunch, I’m totally ordering the Redonkadonk:
You have to sign a waiver before you can order it.
Burger, egg, ham, bacon AND SPAM?!
The friendly heart-attack dealers at the cart showed me a picture of the Redonkadonk while I was waiting for my meager YOUCANHASCHEESEBURGER. Someone had ordered it this afternoon, the first time one of their customers dared do so since they opened.
And it was beautiful. So big they couldn’t wrap it without using masking tape to hold the paper together like the most spectaular Christmas present ever. They said they’re going to start wrapping it in twine, but something tells me a little bit o’ hemp won’t be enough to contain it’s awesofantasmorificism.
If you need me next week, just look for the guy in the gutter with the exploded heart, greasy wrapper in hand, and big ol’ grin on his face.
