I have funny taste in hamburgers. I don't like to eat them at home.
When I was a kid, my dad would turn ground beef into nasty black wads on the barbecue. Around the very same time, I spent a lot of summer days at the Officer's Pool, where they also happened to have a geedunk. I don't know if I'm spelling that right, but it was a Navy term for, basically, a snack bar. I'm not sure what else they served, because I always, always got the hamburger.
A geedunk burger is thin and flimsy, good and greasy, and tastes just right. What is just right? Not too meaty.
Lacking any geedunks in my adulthood, I had to turn to fast-food joints. Really. I can't tell you how much I love a Whopper. But I can't eat them anymore. (Read Fast-Food Nation if you wonder why.)
Cranky naturally thinks that we should have wonderful hamburgers from reliable steakhouses. If we're not making our own at home.
A few days ago we were having a Bolognese adventure in the kitchen, and there was extra ground beef of good quality. He wanted a hamburger, and he knew he would have to treat me extra special to get one on my plate. He made it small, he layered it with my favorite condiments, he formed the meat patty to fit within the slider-size bun. Without thinking, though, he just used a regular-size lump of raw meat, small enough to fit the bun, but too thick.
I didn't like it. It was too meaty.
Actually, it was a perfect hamburger.
I am such a meat wuss.