Lunch Aboard Amtrak Is a Burger-Filled Majesty
Lunch aboard the Coast Starlight is a wonderful thing. (David Coppin Lanegan)
BY DAVID COPPIN LANEGAN
David Coppin Lanegan (@willybillybilliam, @wavesons.band) is a writer and musician. Find his SubStack Jawbone here, and his band Wavesons’ music here.
Mottled blue and white carpet and air pump from the rounded, creme ceiling on the Coast Starlight, the Amtrak Train with service from Seattle to Los Angeles. Visions of golden Autumn slip across the windows, the physical feeling of movement intrinsic to the train creates a sensation of flight.
Words with an accent spil out with the air, giving the last call for lunch before the dining car closes. I sprung up and started down the car, putting my hands near the ceiling as the floor . I limped north as the train moved south and the visage through the glass to my left and right was like watercolors swirling.
The man that spoke on the intercom was there, a short guy, stylish. He was wearing a uniform, but he wore that uniform, a dark, proud waistcoat and trousers with a cold white button up,very well.
“Hey, uh, can I get… um, you guys are just closing down right?”
He held the menus in his hand like a sword and said:
“Lunch?”
“Yes, please!”
I was seated and he threw a laugh and wink to a woman at the other end of the car, turned on his heel back to his place at the car’s center where the card readers and napkins and buckets of bad sauce were. His laugh only petered out as he sat down and picked up his cell phone.
I look at the menu for a while and decide what I want and look out the windows some more when he comes back and starts on his script:
“What can I get you, man?”
“I will take an Angus burger, please.”
By evening, the viewing cars on the Amtrak are quite gorgeous. (Levi Meir Clancy)
“And to drink?”
“Ah… just water.”
“Need that stuff icy?”
“Nah, thank you.”
He reached for my menu and I pull my big hands away to give his some room. He swiped it up and turned on his heel again, the same way, clockwise, and zipped back.
He materializes again soon with my burger and a side of potato chips. The lettuce, white onion, and thick sliced tomato sat to the side, on top of the chips. A rather beautiful, unnatural even, melted slab of odorous cheddar coated the meat patty, itself a bit small. I constructed the thing, put packets of ketchup and mustard on, and dug in.
This burger was not scarily sweet and enticing like a McDonald’s burger, so devoid of real nutrition that you eat five in a row before you feel anything. It is not rough hewn and simple, tasty like a home-grilled burger with Mexican blend cheese and relish and sauerkraut. It is not an overpriced tavern burger served on buttered brioche with some “made in-house aioli” that you can’t taste at all alongside an assortment of unique veg. This is the kind of burger you encounter in strange places. The last one I had before this was at Sea-Tac airport, being served by a Teriyaki restaurant near D gates. This burger is, in reality, bread, meat, cheese, veg, and sauce impersonating a burger. All the flavors are distinct, too simple, processed. They burst in your mouth like primary colors and are gone in an instant. When you’re done you feel like you drank a glass of water.
All that to say, the burger was fascinating and pretty good.
At this point, the short man who waited on me was watching videos on his phone.
“This bride looked beautiful in her wedding dress. And, guess what? She’s Jamaican!”
He saw me seeing him and popped up. On his way over he asked if I had saved room for dessert. I said yes and ordered the strawberry butter cake. He brought it right over.
This little slice of goodness was shocking. The bread of the cake was tough on the outside and baked to crumbly perfection. By the time I’d bitten through the exterior, the spongy center was already to melding to my tongue, imparting a rich cream. The strawberry glaze clicked along the top of everything and brought a sharper definition to the dish. I wolfed it down.
My waiter said, from his station:
“That’s pretty good dessert, hm?”
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“Yeah, that’s crazy. The best train food I’ve ever had.”
“Yes yes. Where you going, man?”
“Los Angeles, but I stop in San Francisco and fly from there.”
“Ooh a good little adventure. Cash or card, young man?”
I saw then that for all his energy and charm, he was kind of old, and maybe he was tired too.
“Card, sir. What’s your name?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick?”
He smiled.
“Patrick.”
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