BURGERS… I want BURGERS. WITH THE FRIES AND THE SAUCES AND THINGS!
A line every American has yelled at least once in their life. (Or well, I hope I’m not the only one…)
The Workingman’s Friend was rumored to have the best burgers according to about… 60% of the people I’ve asked.
That’s a pretty solid percentage! I also looked at some online reviews and stumbled upon the same place being featured on the news! I mean, if a place is on TV because of its burgers it just HAS to be good, right?
The most expensive item on the burger menu is only $11, this surprised me. Usually, once a place shoots up in popularity so do the prices. This is very much a welcome surprise!
As usual, Google Maps was not kind to me. My sense of direction is absolute rubbish, so of course, I got lost on my way there. I swear, I could get lost in my own backyard if the trees were a bit taller!
I took two lefts, a right, and another left, spun around three times for good measure, and found myself at what I thought was the entrance to The Workingman’s Friend. Turns out it was just a very burger-scented dry cleaner. Go figure!
By the time I actually found the place, my stomach was growling louder than a bear in a honey factory. I walked in, and oh boy, the smell was divine—like I had died and gone to burger heaven!
I almost ordered one of everything, but I remembered I probably couldn’t fit all that in my stomach. I settled on their classic cheeseburger, extra pickles, because why not?
The burger? Spectacular! The fries? Crispy perfection! The sauces? A mystery I’m still trying to decode—they must squeeze the essence of flavor itself in there.
I was so enamored with the food that I didn’t even realize I’d draped a napkin over my lap like it was a fancy dinner party. At a burger joint. Classic me!
Oh, but let’s not paint too rosy a picture; even the best burger havens have their quirks. For starters, The Workingman’s Friend, despite its culinary triumphs, sports décor that could generously be described as “retro” and more accurately as “stuck in a time warp.”
The bar stools have seen better days, each squeak narrating a story from decades past, and the tables are a jigsaw puzzle of mismatched Formica patterns.
The lighting? It flickers like a shy firefly, which can be charming if you’re into moody, atmospheric dining experiences—or a bit annoying if you just want to see what you’re eating without staging a séance.
I gotta mention the jukebox that’s still belting out hits from the 80s—total bop but slightly out of place when you’re munching on a modern culinary masterpiece.
Plus, the place was bustling! Not a negative on its own—popular spots are popular for a reason—but finding a seat was like participating in musical chairs.
One minute you’re hovering, plate in hand, and the next, you’re pouncing on a newly vacated spot with the stealth of a suburban panther.
Then came the adventure of getting home. Remember my sense of direction? Yeah, still atrocious. I left the restaurant fully satisfied and somehow ended up on a scenic tour of the entire neighborhood. I saw sights I didn’t know existed in my own city. By the time I got home, I think I’d digested the entire meal.
As I wandered through the unfamiliar streets, I stumbled upon my secret spot for sunset views in Indiana, bathed in the evening’s golden glow, a serene contrast to the bustling dinner scene I had just left behind.
