We’re doing this slightly out of order, for no particular reason.

Yesterday I posted the first in an ongoing set of reviews/commemorations under the banner of the “Great American Food Tour,” or “GRAFT.” This won’t technically be a top five or a top ten, or anything so closed-ended in itself. There will be a continually expanding hierarchy within each food group as I compare them to each other: On the unpublished list, the scope is as narrow as hamburgers and hot dogs, but there’s no reason to believe Buffalo wings – or in Buffalo, chicken wings – can’t show up one day, among other foods that have gained popularity here in the US.

One reading of the title is that this is a Tour of American Food that is Great. One reading of “great” is “large or immense,” in stature, that is, not only or necessarily in size Man v. Food already exists, but while I started the tour before having seen an episode, the spirit of the thing is similar. The point isn’t necessarily to gorge, though, but it is to let fly to a certain extent. It’s about documenting the trips a little more than it is deciding after two places which is the better burger. But I’d find it impossible not to comment and to judge so I’ll do some of that, too.

I mentioned yesterday that having seen Hamburger Paradise was a direct inspiration for the first documented stop, but seeds were planted on two previous occasions, the first having happened almost eight years ago. As life would have it, I’ll be stopping by this place for the third time this very afternoon, with the whole story to follow in sequence at the end of the queue (Stop #7, according to my notes).

Secondarily was a dinner I had a little while back. I was taken out, along with a few other people, to a nice restaurant in the Village. I got the impression that this caliber of place, while commendable and very respectable, was not an uncommon destination for many in the group. I’m not uncivilized but restaurants of this sort, while still affordable, are not generally my bag. This was further clarified when I studied the menu a little too closely not to seem indifferent. My curiosity gave me away, if not also my furrowed heavy brow. My neighbor suggested that I was “more a meat and potatoes guy” than a bon vivant (was the implication). Suppressing the class warrior inside me I dutifully agreed, not only because the assessment was absolutely true.

After this, I reconsidered the importance of a refined palate in the general assumption of sophistication. That night I had no way to shoehorn in memories of all those music lessons and graduate classes and childhood museum visits across state and international borders since I was too busy looking for a dish, preferably bovine, that might take up more than a square inch of the plate. My spot was blown, but that interaction instilled in me a certain reactionary pride in my culinary tastes, whatever they are. Since no more recently than American Pie, beer has had a reputation as a populist drink, nothing overly refined about it. Now, more and more, roving minds microbrew their way into forced sophistication over it. If they can do it with beer, I can do it with American food. If I can enjoy the comfort food of my youth with an open mind, seeking out the best of its kind, the unusual amongst it, enjoying it, spending money and time with those with whom I share this particular kinship, then what the hell’s the problem?