Adventures in Central Connecticut’s Culinary Scene
By Efi Miller
The world of burgers is vast and ever expanding. Each U.S. state appears to have its own obscure rendition of the classic American burger. Minnesota’s claim to burger fame is its Juicy Lucy, where every bite exposes a glistening orange river of cheddar cheese. Or there is Missouri’s Goober burger, where each burger is given a generous shmear of peanut butter. Connecticut’s deceiving size does not exempt the state from possessing a niche burger of its own specifically, central Connecticut’s steamed burger, or “cheeseburg.” What unites these burgers is that each must sound slightly repulsive, though not enough to turn away hungry patrons.
As a part-time Connecticut resident, once hearing murmurs of the fabled Ted’s steamed burger, I became captivated by the idea of trying it for myself. I recruited my friend and resident burger aficionado, Ford, to join me. At 11:30 am on a bright and warm Saturday morning, I buckled myself into the passenger seat of Ford’s Prius and soon we were off, driving through scenic rolling hills blanketed by trees splashed with shades of orange, red, and yellow.
Pulsing with excitement over the mystique and intrigue I had built up for Ted’s, I imagined the establishment would resemble an old 50’s American diner, with neon tube trimming, a metallic exterior, and art deco ornamentation. The sort of place where a family and their overflowing station wagon would stop for a slice of pie on a cross country road trip. What we ended up approaching was a petite brick building slathered in thick coats of brown and salmon paint, partitioned by a section of cream board and batten siding. A light-up sign glowed with the words “TED’S RESTAURANT World Famous Steamed Cheeseburgers Since 1959”. Nonchalantly leaning against the “T” is a man with short coifed brown hair, a red t-shirt, a white apron, and green slacks – presumably Ted.
Entering, we passed through the threshold of the building into a narrow dining space which felt like a cross between an old bus and a liminal office space from the 2010s. Fluorescent lights illuminate the vinyl-coated tables, casting square reflections on the scratched laminated menus. On the far back wall hangs a framed print out of the shop’s page in burger expert George Motz’s 2008 book Hamburger America. Motz documented in his Ted’s chapter: “The meat cooks through but stays amazingly moist and unfortunately, looks like gray matter.”
As we waited for our two classic steamed cheeseburgers, customers began to trickle in for the lunch rush, slowly filling up the few booths inside the establishment or snagging a metal stool at the counter. Parents in hand with their little leaguers still in uniform lined up at the register, and pairs of men dressed in ambiguously scruffy contractor clothes on lunch break flocked around the takeout window.
The burger I had been postulating about for days arrived nestled in a piece of wax paper, slouched inside a green plastic basket. The patty itself was a greige type of color with sections of peculiarly pink bubbles of meat. Initially, I thought the drips on the side of the burger were grease but no—somehow, they engineered ground beef to dribble and settle into tiny teardrops. The burger was held together by a hard sandwich roll, raw and squished at the sides as if it were just pulled out of a bulk bag ordered from Costco. It was difficult to get a good look at the other burger components as an unidentified expanding white substance masked the other ingredients. Nothing about Ted’s burger tasted or behaved like a burger. I respect Ted for miraculously turning a burger into a non-Newtonian fluid, but I also despise him for luring me to consume an unidentifiable object.
The cheese tasted like glue and stuck to the roof of my mouth with a stale Play-Doh- like texture. There was no identifiable flavor to it, and I am still unclear on if it was cheese at all. Otherwise, the rest of the ingredients were normal, having escaped the medieval torture device that is the “meat steamer.”
While we were eating, Ford noticed the waitstaff pouring out trays of juice in the kitchen. “You see them pouring out the juice?” he said, pointing. “There’s just tons of juice in there.” With my back to the steamer, I missed them draining the meat juice from the burger contraption. The machine seemed to sigh in relief, as if it were a cow that had just been milked.
At some point, my burger slowly began to unravel. By the end, my fingers were sticking together with mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup. In the bathroom, the burger carnage slowly melted off my hands under the tap.
Part of me wonders: How has Ted’s persisted for over 70 years, serving this alien cousin of the classic American burger? A restaurant in rural Connecticut can’t survive this long purely being a gimmick. It’s possible that people truly enjoy the steamed meat pucks beneath fluorescent lights. But I think it’s really that Ted’s speaks to our love of gross indulgence and the comfort we seek within it. Places like Ted’s make society interesting and our rural communities more complex but also authentic. The more our American pastoral communities are coveted, the more forced and inorganic they become. Driving through the pothole-littered roads of my remote Pennsylvania hometown, I see experimental gourmet coffee shops inhabiting the shells of old barns. They lure customers in with a mom-and-pop shop charm, manufacturing a feeling of authenticity, of something bigger than us. But communal bonds can’t be forced upon people. No one wants to claim their love of steamed cheeseburgers as an intrinsic part of who they are. They aren’t sexy or aesthetically appealing: they’re uncanny and unembarrassed. It’s why Ted’s and their steaming machine have persisted, and I believe will continue to persist, as they land in the guts of patrons as a fan favorite.
Leaving Ted’s, the burger has sent me into a spiral of existential questioning. On my miniature legal notepad, I scribbled down that “the burger left me feeling confused because it wasn’t bad or repulsive by any means, but also left me generally unsettled.” That still seems about right. I doubt Ted ever intended to leave his patrons settled. The establishments natural unease pulls one in, with its intrigue and mystery. Like each quirky sandwich shop to come before, Ted’s possess a distinct idiosyncratic charm which will keep the steaming machines huffing and puffing for years to come.
