To some people, it is sacrilege to not order a double-double from In-N-Out the moment you cross the California state line. To others, the regional fast food burger joint is a "must" on the itinerary long before their first trip to the Southwest. To me, it was simply another place I hadn't visited during my first few weeks in Los Angeles. Not that I didn’t want to go, I just… hadn’t gone. People would ask if I had been. I would answer. Jaws would drop. The word sacrilege was mentioned once or twice. 

 

But as of last night I have satisfied the seemingly sole criteria as “Temporary-Califorinia-Resident.” Finally.

 

And it is just so that I found myself in line at 11:30pm on Monday.

 

Even at 11:30pm, the line was out the door - a regular occurrence on weekends I presumed - but nevertheless it moved quick. I told my friends I could order my foray into In-N-Out by myself. The line moved quicker. I muttered what I had memorized. The line sped up. Suddenly I was staring into the face of the cashier - a cheerful man in a white shirt, red apron, and a soda jerk cap. Was it 1950? Maybe. The pressure was innumerable, the line behind me still out the door. I felt like Atlas holding up the sky except instead of the sky I held the burden of ordering the exact dish everyone had told me to get - no easy task, I’m sure my friend Atlas would agree. What if I messed up! Ordered the wrong thing! Stumbled and bumbled enough that the cashier couldn’t understand me! I didn't. I ordered a double-double cheeseburger with grilled onions (no lettuce or tomato), fries with the spread, and a medium chocolate milkshake. The total? An easy $11.75. I've never handed my credit card over so quickly.

 

Waiting for my food - I was order 22 - I took in this burger mecca of California. It was an anachronism in the otherwise hyper-developed hills of Westwood, a jet-age Googian design that would fit right at home in the soft-tuned utopia of “The Jetsons." Fryers and servers, cleaners and cashiers ran around in those soda jerk caps like in the movies; red-tiled palm trees (freshly polished) reflected the neon-yellow sign, "Quality you can taste"; the seats were old style chair-booths - red, metallic, a little cold, your thighs would probably stick to them… mine did. My Papa could have pulled up in a '69 Cadillac DeVille and I wouldn’t have blinked twice. 

 

And the people! It was a crowded caucus of young and old, drunk and sober, families and couples, groups and individuals. The security guard was in a loud conversation about NFTs; two guys flexed their muscles and discussed the possibilities of a burger infused with steroids; the girls next to me pointed out a kid sitting at a table by himself (in front of him: three double-doubles, that he did, indeed, finish 10 minutes later. The girls, meanwhile, never got to see this feat of gastronomic endurance, for they had left just seconds earlier). Order numbers were shouted above the clamor of conversation and the sizzle of the sweating grill. Around me, the employees unloaded garbage and reloaded fryers. It was a choreographed dance of human hunger; a late night Waffle House masquerading as a Five Guys; an ecosystem of eclecticity holding the same magic and possibility as the cantina of George Lucas’ 1977 Star Wars.

 

But the food. Ah! The food, that’s why you’re here. What did I think of the food!

 

It was okay.

 

Yeah… just okay.

 

“Order Twenty-two!”

 

The food came in a red plastic tray. A funny little thing that plastic tray - deep enough to become a canyon of grease and calories, but small enough to give the impression of an overflowing Easter basket. The bottom was nubby, textured, slightly warm and smelled like the heavy aromas of your favorite burger joint - fitting, if that burger joint is In-N-Out. The burger itself was a seven layered confection of buns and patties and cheeses and grilled onions. I took my first bite.

 

It was an intense experience, an explosion of flavor and fat, juices jumping to the far side of my mouth. The patties were tender, buttery, in a way, and the bun was soft enough to squish your fingers into yet firm enough to hold the burger together - a rare phenomenon, burger buyers will agree. The cheese was half melted laminate, thick, American, binding the fat together with brute force. But by far the crowning achievement was the onions, a caramelized sweetness that follows the rest of the flavors like the final strings of Mozart’s No. 40.

 

if you’re like me and don’t care for the taste of a raw tomato, or the wet crunch of lettuce, you’re in safe hands, the experience is just as satisfying without them. In fact, I’d go so far to say the lack of them heightens the blunt punch of the cheese and the savory depth of the grilled onions… if you’re into that, of course.

 

The fries were savorless and scratched the top of my mouth, little more than wood chippings coated in chalk dust. I ordered them with the spread (think… thousand island dressing playing hide-n-seek in an In-N-Out packet) and the dish couldn’t find a balance between thick and stale. But a recommendation for those who’ve never tried: dip the fries not covered in sauce in the milkshake for a delectable contrast of sweet and salty.

 

Speaking of the milkshake, it was a frothy, creamy, half melted affair. A deliciously heavy experience thick enough that you needed to pull through the straw from your stomach and even then I found myself needing second wind. It was gone too soon. My fault, I suppose.

 

Walking home at 12:00am that night, I found myself thinking about NFTs, burgers infused with steroids, and the kid with his three double-doubles. He probably likes In-N-Out. A lot of people do. As for me, I’d say In-N-Out was just okay. 

 

Yeah… just okay.