Cheeseburger Haiku - Little Owl

When the burger gods decreed that Little Owl would be the next burger up for some hot haiku action, I was more than enthused. The prospect of having a burger served to me by women in revealing clothing was already adding extra syllables to my haiku if you know what I'm sayin'. As it turns out and contrary to popular belief, Little Owl is not the A-cup equivalent of a Hooters restaurant. It is rather, a brunch place in the West Village filled with young couples making kissy faces at one another over their fancy French donuts. Disgusting! I'm trying to eat a burger here, not discuss an article I read in the Times or talk about that poetry reading I attended last night. And do you really need that silly hat? Young people, bah.

So now what? I'm there for a burger, but I've been handed a brunch menu. At first I was all like, 'brunch, wha?' but then after I looked at the menu I was like 'Bacon cheeseburger brunch, hecks yes.'

I seriously considered getting a beer to wash it down, but since I was still brushing the sleepy-sand from my eyes I decided against it and went for a carbonated soft drink instead. I patiently awaited my burger while avoiding all eye contact with the 'brunch people.' Seriously, brunch people treat brunch like it's some holy occasion. It's almost cult-like. And not go and see Big Lebowski dressed as the Dude cult-like, but carpet cleaning cult-like.

Brunch isn't anything special, to quote a no-good wife-courting French bowling instructor, "It's not quite breakfast, it's not quite lunch, but it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end. You don't get completely what you want at breakfast, but you get a good meal." Does anyone really like cantaloupe? I didn't think so. Whatever you do, don't drink the brunch-people Kool-Aid. No meal needs a slice of melon at the end. The only melons the Cheeseburger Haiku needs can be double-entrendred for via nocturnal birds. (Boobs. I was referring to boobs.)

My brunch finally came. A steamy pile of cheesy, bacony meat. It looked delicious and it smelled delicious. Experiencing such sensory bleed through made me ponder if I was experiencing some kind of burger-related synesthesia, so I took a bite. It tasted delicious too. All of my perceptions were set to one channel. It was like someone turned the dial to 'delicious' and then took the remote into the kitchen and fixed a snack, and by the time the snack was fixed the remote was forgotten, thus leaving the dial stuck on delicious. The burger felt delicious. The burger sounded delicious. The burger saw dead people delicious. It was delicious o'clock. And the temperature in the restaurant was delicious. You know that feeling you get when you know someone is staring at you? That was delicious. Every single mode of perception was delicious. Brain freeze delicious. Over there delicious. Mama bear protecting her young delicious. Ultraviolet delicious. Bitch in heat delicious. Infrared delicious. Dolphin sonar delicious.

The Little Owl bacon cheeseburger in a word was: very good.

It was greasy and it was big. It was perfectly shaped and cooked to perfection. It was everything a burger should be and it even came with the most American of cheeses, American cheese. You don't hear much about American cheese these days. It's just not that exciting. I'll admit, the Cheeseburger Haiku often overlooks this most basic of burger cheeses for some other, fancier cheese--you're about as likely to find some Kraft singles in my fridge as you are to find some J. Biebs and Katy Perry singles in my music library (Alright, alright, I'll cop to the Bieber, but I can assure you there are no Katy Perry singles in my music collection, so please don't look. I don't even know why I brought that up. Just forget that last analogy, okay?)

Coming in at 16 bucks this is the most expensive burger on the 'ku, but it was worth every penny. I award Little Owl a full Cheeseburger Haiku recommendation.