Adventures in Fine Dining, Chapter 1

SANTA CLARITA Calif. — The sun pounded the L.A. area like a cheap steak as my friend Al (short for “Aloysius”) and I stumbled into the blessedly air-conditioned Fatburger in Valencia.

For my Hoosier friends, Fatburger is a chain in the western U.S. According to legend, it was named thusly because each sandwich is “fat” with toppings. Sure.

Fatburger is only one of several L.A. eateries I miss. You got your Hamburger Hamlet, The Habit, The Shack, In-n-Out Burger, Pink’s Hot Dogs, Bob’s Big Boy, Cantor’s Deli, Musso and Frank’s ...

Al and I had been told of a little-known competition going on almost continuously at the Fat. Anyone who could eat one of its sandwiches, plus fries and a drink, would get his picture on “The Wall of Shame.”

The sandwich was called “The Triple King.” The Fat’s regular burger was the King, with a half-pound patty and cheese. So The Triple King was, of course, THREE half-pound patties, plus three slices of cheese, plus toppings, plus a half-pound of fries and an extra-large soda.

That’s all.

Now, Al and I were both big lads. We had done the circuit: franks at Tail O’ the Pup in Beverly Hills, burgers at the oldest surviving McDonald’s in Downey, and that thing they served at Tommy’s Original (supposedly, it’s the first chili-cheeseburger, but it eats like a gallon bag of steak).

No novices to this “living large” concept, we still sat for a moment, not so much out of reverence, but merely to stop perspiring like Lindsay Lohan in a confessional.

“You got The Triple King here?” Al asked the girl at the counter.

“Yes, we do, sir,” she said with all the feigned enthusiasm of a ride worker at Six Flags.

“Load us up,” I said.

We both struggled to carry our trays to the table.

The mound of fries and keg of beverage were daunting enough, but the “sandwich” (such an inadequate word) appeared to be breathing on its own, sweating beef fat and laughing like Jabba the Hutt.

And I was Princess Leia.