As I brought my currently moccasined feet down on the semi-comfortable patio made up of astroturf, we were not too far from Harding Middle School. It’s where I so badly wanted to be a punk rocker—mostly to impress a girl, as you do—but, of course, had parents that would never let me dress like that. So while I was never able to be a punk there, maybe I can be a punk here at Burger Punk, 3012 N. Walker, Suite B.
My schoolmate-in-arms Jodie and I walked into the painted black edifice—Goth Burger would’ve worked well too, guys—our twisted fingers in a Brit-heavy v-sign as a piss off to total conformity, but the one or two people working there really didn’t care; I think that was mostly because we were old fucks and they were just young kids.
After scouring the small menu for a minute or two, we ordered our eats and sat back to listen to the punk tunes screeching over the speakers, including a number from Taylor Momsen and the Pretty Reckless. Even though I made fun of most of the tracks, Jodie mocked me for knowing so many of them; as much as I would have liked to flip the table over and draw a switchblade, ironically I didn’t feel this would be the proper establishment to do that in.
As our eats were soon brought to our table, immediately terrorizing my tastebuds with the sheer force of their rancorous spices, I want to come out and play a strong set for the Crinkle Cut Fries ($3.50). Dubbed “the only fries worth eating”—a paraphrased play on the Clash’s own manifesto—they really aren’t too far off.