NORTH SHORE MAGAZINE, April 1999.
"Anatomy of a Hackneyburger", by Michael Austin

You may have noticed the absence of the "Best Burger" category in this year's Reader's Choice survey. That's because it's usually no contest--the famed Hackneyburger runs away with it every year. So we've retired the category for now (if it returns after a year or two, we hope you will welcome it back), and named the Hackneyburger a perennial favorite. Coincidentally, the burger celebrates its 60th birthday this year.

We stop at Hackney's on Lake in Glenview to taste the legendary sandwich and to have a chat with some of the family. We meet matriarch Marcella "Kitz" Masterson, who tells us that she and her late husband Jim tried to fill a gap in the early days between restaurants and saloons. "We wanted to be family dining with a bar," she says.

"There were no places like this," says Denny Hebson, her son-in-law. "There was nothing in-between. We were sort of innovators or originators of that kind of thing."

We sit in the bar and get the low-down on arguably the most popular and enduring hamburger in the north and northwest suburbs. For $6.45, (50 cents extra for cheese), you get an 8-ounce burger on rye bread, with lettuce, tomato, and grilled or raw onions on the side, plus cole slaw and fries. You can substitute a bun for the rye as half of all customers do. And if you absolutely must, you can now get bleu cheese on your burger, but only because Hackney's has it around for another dish it serves. Bleu cheese is not listed among the cheeseburger options, so if you request it, do so quietly.

"You go to a lot of restaurants and they all have their specialty burgers--the Mexican burger or whatever else," says chef Ed Hebson, Denny's son. "Here, it's just--'this is the way you get it'".

We ask about the fat content of the beef and the cooking method. We learn that the burgers contain 14 percent fat, which is rather lean for a hamburger. They're cooked on a griddle, but for years they were fried in 10-inch iron skillets laced with suet. Contrary to local folklore, Hackneyburgers were never deep-fried. The Mastersons used to form the burger by packing them in a large coffee cup, but now the patties arrive at the restaurant pre-formed. The five restaurants in the Hackney's chain--all owned and operated by the same family--go through a total of 5 tons of beef per week.

We ask what kind of seasonings are added to the meat. Chef Ed smiles.

"I think what got the Hackneyburger famous was the simplicity of it," he says. "One of the things with the Hackneyburger is that we don't season the beef. It's the shape that made it famous. It's an oval to fit the rye bread."

Taking it a step further, we ask about any secret sauces that might grace the burger. Ed smiles again.

"None?" we ask.

Holding his smile, he nods towards the condiments on our table and says, "Heinz tomato ketchup, French's mustard."

His father shakes his head, and with a pained look on his face and more than a dollop of disdain, says: "I can't understand why anyone would put mustard on a hamburger."

Serious business.

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