Burgerhaus
Let me paint you a picture: I walk into a place that feels like Buffalo Wild Wings had an affair with a sports bar down the street—big screens blaring at every angle, the comforting roar of a crowd you can’t see. Before I even look at what’s on tap, the staff hands me paperwork that feels like I’m about to sign a mortgage. Clipboard, binder, menu—enough dead trees to start my own campfire. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my menus straightforward; multiple volumes usually mean overkill, or someone’s hiding mediocrity under piles of paper.
First up: pickle chips. If you’ve ever been to a state fair and stumbled upon that battered-anything booth at the edge of the carnival, you’ve basically tried these. Bland, battered pickle slices—crunchy but unimaginative. When a menu boasts “Haus-made ranch,” I’m primed for something that might blow my mind. Instead, I’m reminded that sometimes “Haus-made” is a code word for “same old.”
Then there’s the chips and guac. Let’s be real: slinging a basket of chips and a side of guac is about as original as wearing flip-flops to the beach. If they’re going to call it a signature appetizer, at least jazz it up. Instead, it’s the same supermarket guac I pick up on a lazy Sunday when I’m home watching football. Functional? Yes. Memorable? Not so much.
Now, let’s talk burgers—specifically, THE VIENNA. Applewood smoked bacon, beer-braised onions, bacon jam, provolone, arugula, mayo, brioche bun… you get the idea. Sounds like the kind of over-the-top creation that roars “trust me, I’m worth the extra napkins.” The bacon jam is a star—sweet, smoky, the kind of flavor that lingers in your head long after the plate’s cleared. Beer-braised onions run a close second, adding a nice pop of richness. They missed the proper temperature on the patty (almost a cardinal sin in Burger Land), but even so, the taste was solid. Messy? Absolutely. But c’mon, we’re adults here—forks are for salads, not burgers.
Surprise hit of the night? The unassuming Southwest coleslaw. It starts off all innocent and mild, then sneaks up on you with a heat that builds like a slow-burn thriller. Each person at my table had the same reaction—“Oh, it’s not that hot… wait, actually, wow, okay that’s got some kick.” It’s the kind of side dish that compels you to keep shoveling it in your mouth despite the tears welling in your eyes.
Dessert, on the other hand, was a letdown: strawberry cheesecake that’s smaller than a Costco sample and somehow denser than a bad blind date. If you’re going to serve a portion that tiny, it had better be transcendent—this was just crumbly and dry. Nothing to write home about, unless you’re writing a complaint letter.
The place has apparently been open for a while, and I’d hope they’d refine the menu to match some of the better bits, like that coleslaw. But with the atmosphere turned up to “stadium-loud,” you’re either here for the game or for the booze—and if you happen to stumble on a decent burger along the way, it’s icing on the cake. Let’s just say if they spent half as much time perfecting the appetizers and dessert as they did printing out those War and Peace menus, they might have something truly worth returning for.
In short, it’s a one-stop sports bar with some promising elements (that burger’s jam and onions, that slaw). But if you’re expecting a spiritual food awakening, you might come away a bit disappointed—unless you really like reading multiple menus while the TV hollers in your ear. Still, if you’re in the mood for a decent burger and a crowd of sports fans, it might scratch your itch. Just skip the dessert and maybe smuggle in some seasoning for those pickles.