My journey to Park City was long, and the stale, re-circulated airplane air had taken its toll. Wanting nothing more than some grub to satiate my hunger, I got out of the hotel’s Escalade in front of the No Name Saloon, the home of the orneriest burgers in the West.
Once there, I stepped out of the car and raised my hand to shield my eyes from the bright Utah sun. I pushed my way through the doorway, knocked the dust from my Cole Haan loafers, and bellied up to the bar.
“Barkeep,” I said, “my journey was long, and I am weary.”
“What you need, stranger, is the Saloon Burger. A half-pound of ground buffalo with grilled onions, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, and mayo.”
“Buffalo?” I asked, careful not to betray my trepidation. “I’ll take it.”
“The Saloon is one of my favorites,” offered the visibly inebriated gentleman next to me. He and a compatriot had clearly been there for some time. “I would also suggest the Zesty Red Bull Burger.”
“I am only here for the weekend,” I said, careful not to rile him. “I probably won’t have a chance to come back for another.”
My inebriated friend’s compatriot cocked his head. “You’re only ordering one?” he asked. “We all eat multiple burgers here in Utah.”
“Sure. Sometimes three, four, five at a time. It’s just the way things are done around here.”
“The other burgers don’t mind?”
“Of course not. They consider it a privilege to share a plate with the other burgers.”
I had read about the practice of polyburgiatry, but I’d always known it wasn’t for me; I’m a one-burger man.
And I have no regrets. The Saloon Burger was juicy and delicious, with sweet onions and cheese melted to perfection. The lettuce and tomato were crisp and fresh. The buffalo patty was pleasantly flavorful. Only the fact that the burger arrived medium-well, despite my order of medium, kept the Saloon—the only non-cow offering on the site thus far—from a 5.
If the locals did have to choose only one, I’d recommend the Saloon Burger. I give it a 4.5 out of 5.