I have a confession to make. I have never eaten at Peter Luger’s. I know, crazy but true. There were numerous times I had made plans to go, but for one reason or another, it never happened. Last week Kathy and Julie took a stand and decided it was time for me to check it out, and we made a date to go and try their famous burger, only served at lunch. I had heard about this burger from legions of respected food-loving friends. It had obtained mythical burger status in my mind. I was warned to take wads of cash (no plastic is accepted), and to wear Lycra or something expandable. And so last Friday, dressed in my loosest jeans and packing a wallet full of cash, I boarded the J train to Marcy Avenue. I found a seat and listened to the MTA announcer remind us to watch out for our belongings, not to expose electronic devices like iPods or cell phones. This I found odd. Are they actually thinking people are worried about getting mugged on subways anymore? Oh those were the good old days. I wish that were my worst fear. Here, take my iPod, take my cell phone. Take everything. Please. Just don’t blow me up. (If it seems as though I am trying to laugh at this, I am. It’s the only way I can deal with the horrific reality of this prospect.) As I sat there, sadly contemplating the devolution of our society and the state of our world, the train came out of the tunnel, and sunshine spilled in through the subway car’s dusty windows. We rattled up the tracks, chugging up and over the Williamsburg Bridge, and there, laid out in front of me, was our city—unapologetically alive. Is there any other place to live?

I walked down the subway stairs and up Broadway, a few blocks over to Luger’s, an institution that feels as though time has not moved forward an inch in decades. The décor is simple and standard—wood paneled walls, wood floors, black and white photos on the walls. Unlike the breadstick-thin amazons that greet you at most Manhattan chicdoms, the hostesses at Luger’s are older women dressed in sweaters, donning bifocals on chains, wearing heavy make up with thick eyeliner and sticky coats of mascara, with long fingernails, and raspy voices choked by years of smoking and answering phones. Behind the long wooden bar, there was a bald, blue-eyed sturdy bartender in a white coat with a salty personality, who mixed Julie a perfect Manhattan. And in the bright, windowed dining room, there were waiters, all men, wearing nametags and weathered smiles. They were sweet and efficient, and at times almost comatose in their approach. They’ve all been doing this for a long time.

The tables were crowded with men with ties tossed over shoulders slicing into bloody porterhouse slabs, bowls of creamed spinach and plates lined with wide circles of tomato and onion. There were a few token tourists and large parties getting ready to bear down for a Thanksgiving sized meal in the middle of the day on a random Friday in September. And there were three girls out for a lunch of burgers and beers (and one perfect Manhattan).

Julie was loving her Manhattan, and Kathy and I were into our pints of Brooklyn Lager as we dug into the overflowing basket of rolls that was tossed on our table—football shaped pretzel rolls, fluffy cubes of Parker House, and puffy, oblong onion rolls—a nice collection of carbs that I could not resist. (Like I really needed to be eating bread before my burger feast.) Soon, Steve (according to his name tag) came over to check on us. He was a handsome guy with blue eyes, graying hair and a rugged, suave approach. He reminded me of Steve McQueen or some sort of Marlboro Man. We ordered another round and our lunch: three burgers (all medium rare), two slices of bacon, fries, and an order of creamed spinach. After about 15 minutes our feast was served. The bacon was just what I was craving—a thick, sweet, smoky and salty slab, crispy on the edges, thick enough to get some real flavor of pork in your mouth, and marbled with ribbons of glistening fat. It was delicious and helped my hangover from the previous night of drinking at Pegu Bar. Our burgers, however, were not quite as we had imagined. They arrived quite charred, almost blackened on the outside, set inside sesame brioche buns with a few wide cut fries on the side. (They skimp on the fries big time. Come on. They are potatoes. You are charging hundreds of dollars for steak. Throw a couple more fries on the plate.)

Now, I hate to say this because many of you will likely never trust my opinion again (if you do at all now), but honestly my burger at Luger’s was awful. It was a disgrace. It was completely unseasoned—utterly flavorless. What’s more, we ordered them medium rare and what we got were three raw burgers. I mean not just bloody, but totally raw chopped meat. Now the texture of the chopped meat was nice, but it was ice cold and completely devoid of flavor. We summoned Steve McQueen, and he could not have been nicer—he said the same thing had happened when the critic from the Times was in a few months back. Apparently Bruni sent his burger back too. Did you Frank? Call me. Let’s discuss. Anyway, Steve gladly took the burgers back and had them cooked a bit more. They were returned, cooked, but the flavor was still absent. I was shaking salt on that burger like someone trying to ward off evil sprits. And it was not helping. And the fries were soggy. I mean, they make a much better burger at Five Points. What’s the fuss people? Hey, it was cheap ($7.95), but still, it’s a lot of hype and not a lot of substance if you ask me.

All was not lost. Our creamed spinach was lovely—I could have eaten the entire casserole dish myself. Believe me, it would not have been a problem. (Add a few slabs of bacon and that might be my order next time.) The spinach is creamy but it is not really so much about the cream as about the spinach, which was dark and rich, like a fallen savory soufflé.

For dessert we had a great big messy ice cream sundae—a tall soda fountain glass filled all the way up with scoops of thick and creamy vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and topped off with a heaping spoonful of freshly whipped cream, nuts, a cherry, and a milk chocolate cow on top. Yum. I will be back to see what this steak fuss is about for sure. But for my burger fix, I’ll stick to Five Points. Peter Luger’s is located at 178 Broadway, corner of Driggs Avenue, in Williamsburg. J/M/Z to Marcy Avenue. 718-387-7400.

Andrea Strong