I’m honestly a little annoyed with myself for even writing this, given the massive amount of local blogger content about this place. There are 22 freaking blog posts about Flip on Urbanspoon. No one ever said I’m original. But If I’m going to do this, I’m going to leave all of the standard “blah blah blah Top Chef blah blah” out of it. You all know what Flip is, and you don’t need me to tell you about it again.
Yet, I feel that this meal should be shared.
In the first-person narrative, present tense.
My $60 Lunch at Flip Burger
I am Jack’s Fatty Duck Liver
It’s a beautiful spring Saturday afternoon in Atlanta.
I’m curled up in the fetal position on the couch, wrangling with a demon from the 7th level of hangover hell. Wait…what time did I go to bed last night? And who the hell are these people sleeping on my floor?
All I want to do is pull a blanket over my head, order a mediocre horror movie, and send one of these randos to go pick up some Waffle House for me. Instead, I must now go meet my out of town friends that just HAVE to try Flip Burger before they leave Atlanta. I down a Bubba Keg of water and set off for the Westside.
If you aren’t much of a drinker, then you probably won’t understand this, but there is something about being hung-over that makes you just not really give a damn. And that manifests itself in different ways in different people. For me, that usually means that I become a little…demanding… when it comes to my creature comforts. If I decide that I want something, there isn’t an argument, no matter how logical, that will talk me out of it. I border on bratty. And right now, I need something to make me feel better, STAT.
Do you know what usually makes me feel better when I’m in this condition? Greasy, decadent, and rich food. I need fat. And you know what has some damn tasty fat in it?
I pull into Flip and groggily greet my old friends. We exchange good-to-see-you’s and hugs, and I order a pint of Sweetwater, hoping to keep The Fear, that sinister window of hangover misery when the last remaining drops of alcohol leave your bloodstream and you realize just how hungover you really are, at bay until after our meal.
We get a sweet table on the patio…things are looking up and I’m starving. And I know what I came here for.
The poor bastard assigned to our table doesn’t even get the chance to hand me a menu before I’m barking milkshake orders at him. I make sure that he understands that the Krispy Kreme and Marshmellow and Nutella shakes are for the table. The Foie Gras is for me.
The milkshakes arrive and I attack. I’ve always backed down from ordering the $9 foie gras milkshake before, but I currently have a bad case of the fuck-it’s.
Wait….this tastes a hell of a lot like a vanilla milkshake….like, a LOT like a vanilla milkshake. Did that guy screw up my ord-
Ohhh…there’s the foie gras at the end. Yup…definitely foie gras. Weird. I thought this would be more “foie” and less “shake”. But, then again, a duck liver smoothie might not keep ‘em running back, so I guess I understand.
Damn…light on the foie gras or not, this is like ambrosia to me right now. This is just what the doctor ordered. I can’t slow myself down, but the brain freeze is worth it.
Shit! I just let the server take my empty glass and didn’t get a picture of my shake. Oh well…it looked exactly like a vanilla milkshake…I guess they’ll just have to use their imaginations if I wind up writing about this. I pull my iPhone out of my pocket so that I don’t forget again. Everyone else oh’s-and-ahh’s over the novelty burger selection, but I already know what I’m getting.
If I’m going to do this thing, I’m going to go it right. The A5 Kobe burger it is.
Hell yeah, I’m going there. I don’t give a damn if it is a $40 burger. Grade A-5 Kobe beef, seared foie gras, truffle oil, pickles, and red wine syrup? I’d pay you $400 for that right now, because that sounds amazing. And I don’t give a damn if you think it’s stupid; I’m going to devour this thing.
I’m so excited about the A5 that I completly forget about my side. Great…now I’m the idiot that is holding up the table while someone shows me where the sides are on the menu.
Hmmm….Vodka battered onion rings?….hand-cut French fries?…..Oh HELL yes. I’m on a roll here, so why not keep going?
I’ll have the sweetbreads for my side please, and no, I don’t care that they are $7, get off my ass already.
Did you see the look that the server just gave me after taking my order? He either thinks that I’m a total jackass, or that I’m kind of awesome. Probably jackass.
The sweetbreads arrive first.
I…like these? These are good, but if you deep fry anything and dredge it in buffalo sauce, it would taste like this. I want sweetbreads that act like f’ing sweetbreads, not hide under fry batter and wing sauce. You’re a sweetbread…be proud of it. Taste like a thymus gland dammit!
Oh…that blue cheese foam is pretty damn good though. Damn you Blais, and your trendy-yet-delicious-gimmickry. The elitist in me wants to make snarky comments about the use of “foam”, but this is tasty.
I’m losing steam. I don’t think I can finish these. Am I sweating? Oh hell…great idea genius. You’re hungover on a warm afternoon and you just ate a bunch of hot sauce. Sweet.
Finally, my A5 arrives.
Buttered bun, juicy unreasonably high-grade beef, gooey, heady, foie gras, and truffle. Sweet baby Jesus.
Oh, god…this is so stupid. I’m eating a $40 burg-
DAMN THIS IS GOOD. Melted foie gras juiciness streams from the corners of my shit-eating grin, and I don’t care. This is what I needed. This will make everything ok.
The A5 is the New York Yankees of hamburgers. You throw enough cash at a burger and its bound to be good. Except this burger doesn’t piss me off like A-rod does. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
I want to be Facebook friends with this hamburger. I want to take it home to meet my parents.
What? You want a bite? Sure…you got $5?
I polish off the last of my burger, and run my finger across my plate, scooping the last of the foie gras and truffle oil into my mouth. I moan.
Ohhhhhh….man…that was ridiculous. I’m awesome. All is right in the world.
I need a cigarette…and not one of those “I just ate a great meal” cigarettes. I mean an “I just got laid” cigarette.
The A5 just made sweet, sweet, love to me. And like many women, the A5 has left me with a stupid smile on my face, a lighter wallet, a little less dignity, and the overwhelming desire to go to take a nap.
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