738 East 3rd Street
Los Angeles, CA 90013
If you work in a reasonably woke corporate environment (or a not-at-all woke corporate environment doing its best imitation of a woke corporate environment), you’ve probably heard something about implicit social cognition (it’s more commonly referred to as unconscious bias, but I actually prefer the former term. Anyway). According to UCSF, these are extra-conscious formed perceptions about groups of people that “stem from one’s tendency to organize social worlds by categorizing.”
I admit that this idea is probably most usefully deployed to explain human interactions, but actually, I don’t think it’s cabined to our views about people. I think these kinds of categorizations apply to our feelings about everything–like food. It’s why your one friend inexplicably avoids okra in spite of having never eaten it. Or why your significant other refuses to countenance egg white in his cocktails. Or why your sister refuses to try the red velvet from that vegan bakery. Or why your cousin won’t eat at Gracias Madre.
We all have our biases, built over decades, brick by seemingly-unrelated brick. The sum total of our experiences is a flawed whole, a view of the world through a lens that’s necessarily cracked. Or convex. Or smudged. Or something. Point is, the very act of being an individual means operating with incomplete information. Even absent malice, the manner in which we examine the world is informed by our inevitable lack of information. Or our inevitably incomplete or skewed perspective. It’s what our venerable former Secretary of Defense termed the “Unknown Unknowns.”
This, I suppose, is why I wouldn’t try a specific Known Unknown, viz., the Impossible Burger at Umami Burger, for so long, despite having been urged to do so by numerous people. I could never quite articulate a rational reason why I’d never tried it. Eventually, my refusal to give it a shot was distilled down to a prejudice against meatless burgers.
Sunday afternoon, then, can serve as living proof that the tides of progress are inexorable. It was then, after all, that I faced up to my prejudice, went to Umami Burger in the Arts District, and tried the Impossible Burger. The woke architects of my spiritual improvement? Kelsey and her mother. Who else?
The Order: The Impossible Burger
The Price: $16
Most prejudices are not well-founded. If, however, you share my (roiling) prejudice against meatless burgers, though, you know this specific prejudice is the exception to that rule. The essential feature of a great burger is that juxtaposition between charred skin and juicy meat. It’s the foundation stone for a dish, the central appeal of which is textural contrasts. Smooth sauces; silky cheese; juicy, explosive meat; crisp, parchment-like lettuce; the burst of juicy tomatoes; and an airy bun all exist together in one unified whole.
The epicenter of that textural mix, the one constant, is the patty. No matter how many different burgers you try, what makes them all burgers is the presence of that meaty anchor. It needn’t be beef, but it needs to be charred on the outside and juicy on the inside. Most meatless patties fail because they don’t provide both of those features. They may be crisp on the outside, but then they’re lifeless inside. Or maybe they’re moist inside, but then they can’t offer that grill-crisped shell.
So, if you ever breathlessly have protested, “A meatless burger is not a burger,” then you understand that you aren’t making a crassly presented judgment on the relative values of two objectively coequal members of a category; to the contrary, you’re making a definitional claim, namely, that a burger needs a patty that is charred and juicy. Meatless patties aren’t charred and juicy (at best, customarily, they’re one or the other). It would follow a burger built around a meatless patty isn’t a burger at all; it’s just a, like, fried lentil sandwich or something.
Tempting as it is to venture further down the “What is a burger?” rabbit hole, I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, the Impossible Burger complicates the calculus a great deal. The patty is made of a proprietary blend of…well, not-meat things (wheat, coconut oil, and other not-meats; the precise mix is, apparently, a secret). The idea is that it’s a legitimate alternative to meat (it even looks like beef before you cook it) from a taste and texture standpoint, but without the nasty ecological impact that attends the production of meat.
The flagship ingredient is heme. Without getting too esoteric, heme is an iron-laden porphyrin (a class of organic molecule). Its most famous work is in hemoglobin–that stuff in your blood that carries oxygen. A lesser-known work in its oeuvre is that it’s a big part of what makes meat…meat. You can find heme in all living things. You may wonder how such a compound wound up in a “meatless” burger. The answer is that the heme used in the Impossible Burger is generated by introducing the gene in soybeans that encodes the heme protein into yeast, and–
I can feel myself losing you. Okay. I’ll just dish on the burger.
The presentation, I think, is meant to highlight just how meat-like this patty is. Two Impossible burger patties are smothered in American cheese, caramelized onions, mustard, spread, pickles, lettuce, and tomato. If that sounds utterly conventional, it is; and that’s precisely the point. The goal here is to challenge the eater to distinguish this in a meaningful way from what you flipped off a grill with a spatula and slapped between sponge buns with a careless spray of mustard and ketchup and whatever garnishes you could snatch on the way to the cooler to grab a Coke.
To be sure; you will be able to taste the difference. There are stronger notes of mushroom in this burger than you’d note in a beef patty. But you also probably won’t dispute that this is, undoubtedly, a burger. Calling it a “carnivore’s dream” might be something of a stretch, but it’s miles away from being a carnivore’s nightmare. The impression it leaves is more like a beef burger than a Gardenburger: There is char. The patty is juicy. It is flavorful. And (this is, after all, still Umami Burger) it is overcooked.
And again, because this is Umami Burger, the garnishes are largely uninspired, the miso-mustard tries hard but won’t lay you flat, and the spread lacks piquancy. The bun is just a hair shy of being too dry for comfort. The whole thing doesn’t sing; it just kind of murmurs unobtrusively. But you don’t care about all that. You know all that. What you want to know is whether the patty is worth trying. The answer is a resounding yes.
If you’re anything like me, your aversion to trying this burger is the product of prejudice rather than judgment. It likely emanates from a feeling that meatless alternatives aren’t alternatives at all; they’re just an aggravating failed imitation from people who have made a reasonable choice to not eat meat, but then show an unreasonable unwillingness to stay in their proverbial lane. But the Impossible Burger isn’t just the product of vegan FOMO. It’s the product of an impulse for ecologically responsible consumption. And vegan FOMO.
Whatever its genesis, the product has some merit and deserves attention. Is the Impossible Burger as good as a beef patty? No. But unlike its meatless forebears, that’s a question worth asking. Time to get woke.
Flavor: 8.50 / 10.00
Freshness: 8.00 / 10.00
Value: 8.10 / 10.00
Efficiency: 9.00 / 10.00
Creativity / Style: 10.00 / 10.00
Bun: 7.80 / 10.00
Patty: 8.70 / 10.00
Toppings: 8.00 / 10.00
Sauce: 8.00 / 10.00
Balance: 8.80 / 10.00
Total: 84.90 / 100.00