Burger Friday: Lake & Irving

The burger: After taking a brief, spring-is-finally-here hiatus, Burger Friday is back, and taking your calls.

Variations on "What's your favorite burger?" have been peppering my inbox for several weeks, and despite my reputation as The Thing That Won't Shut Up, I'm challenged to come up with a response for that one. Only because limiting my answer to a single example is darned near impossible.

So I'll cheat it and offer, in no particular order, five burger-makers that immediately come to mind: Rabbit Hole, Borough, HauteDish, Victory 44 and the crazy-good (and crazy-inexpensive) sliders served at the Rookery.

Wait, let me add another to the list: Lake & Irving.

One reason why is that, at their new-ish Uptown restaurant, brothers Chris and Andrew Ikeda took no chances on their path to burger nirvana.

"The burger is what so many people screw up," said Andrew. "We want to make it as perfect as possible, every time."

And they do. At least the more-than-a-handful of times that I've devoured it. That admirable consistency is a result of an exhaustive research-and-development process, one that led the Ikedas to their alert-the-Patent-Office formula.

It starts with a steakhouse-style short rib-chuck blend, imported from New Jersey's Pat LaFrieda Meat Purveyors and a grind so flavorful that it barely needs salt and pepper. Although the end result very nearly comes off as a single patty, each burger doubles up a pair of three-ounce-ers. Picture it this way: rather than a clearly delineated double patty, a la the Big Mac, imagine a thick-ish single patty, albeit one with a slightly off-kilter shape.

Here's the fascinating part: Each patty is cooked on a 500-degree flattop grill for a precise (as in, down to the second) amount of time, a figure determined by a ton of trial and error. Forgive me for not being able to clear the opening credits of 60 Minutes from my train of thought.

While immersed in their R&D period, the brothers stumbled into an ah-ha moment: During that quick cooking period, each patty benefits from a hard press with a spatula, a la Smashburger.

"It's counter-intuitive, I know," said Andrew. "At the CIA [Culinary Institute of America], we were taught that if you ever take the back of a spatula to a patty, the patty will lose moisture. But on a hard flattop, it doesn't. It's the fattiness in the short rib, which locks all that flavor and moisture into the patty."

Another integral element is a Wisconsin cheddar, and no, it's not an artisanal, meticulously aged product. And that's OK.

"We're purists," said Andrew with a laugh. "A foie burger is one of the most sublime things I've ever had. But we're about doing the basic things really well. We don't want to over-complicate and detract from what makes a good burger a good burger."

Well said. It helps that this very basic cheddar has all the flavor and melty texture that anyone requires in a hamburger-bound cheese (true to form, that long-lasting melt is achieved through a careful baste that's also measured in seconds). The sense of restraint continues with the burger's other garnishes, a few marvelously made pickle chips, a modest sliver of red onions and a lettuce leaf, all served on the side.

The two-patty formula is genius, in part because the thin shape requires next to no cooking time before each center reaches a picture-perfect pink. These burgers very nearly fly out of the kitchen, making L&I a smart lunch destination for the time-pressed.

(Another benefit of the two-patty system: Flavor. A pair of patties has twice the amount of surface that has been seared on the grill, and when that beef comes in contact with that heat, transformative deliciousness ensues. Now multiply that, times two.)

There's a nostalgia-dipped backstory, too. The brothers (that's Chris, left, and Andrew, right, from a Star Tribune file photo) wanted to pay homage to the burgers that fueled them from grade school through college.

"We're trying to get back to our roots," said Andrew. "We grew up on Lions Tap – that's what I ate after soccer games when I was 14 -- and other old-school burgers, with their smaller, thinner patties. But we also looked around, and we see a lot of these big, thick, medium-rare patties, and we don't see anyone else doing two patties. So we thought we'd try it out."

I nearly forgot about the crowning touch, a brioche bun from Patisserie 46, a golden, flaky, buttery thing of beauty that has quickly become the bun by which all others are measured. At L&I, it's lovingly split and grilled in butter, caramelizing until it reaches the color of dark butterscotch.

"A lot of the credit goes to Patisserie 46, because that bun is dynamite," said Andrew. Agreed.

Not convinced? Consider the numbers. The L&I cheeseburger (it's served on every menu: lunch, dinner, late-night and brunch) is outsold only by the kitchen's category-killing fried chicken sandwich. The latter has developed a (well-deserved) cult following. In my opinion, the burger merits similar standing.

Price: $11. For a criss-cross of expertly fried bacon (highly recommended), add $2.

Fries: Included, and on par, quality-wise, with the burger.

At the bar: The Ikedas are clearly beer aficionados, and their eclectic, always-on-the-lookout list is bound to have a few choices that pair beautifully with burgers. Andrew is partial to Expat, the rye saison from Fulton Brewery, "although you can't go wrong with Bell's Two Hearted, that's always money," he said. "Or if you're really going heavy, have the North Coast Old Rasputin Nitro, that's going to stand up to the burger really well." See what I mean?

Address book: 1513 W. Lake St., Mpls., 612-354-2453. Open 11 a.m. to 1 a.m. weekdays, 9 a.m. to 1 a.m. weekends. Reservations accepted for parties of six or more.

Talk to me: Do you have a favorite burger? Share the details at rick.nelson@startribune.com.