My first American burger

I remember vividly the experience of my first comfort meal in America when I moved to Boston for college.

It was a wet and gloomy day in August, I was cold, hungry and tired because I had just spent the morning exploring Harvard Square in Cambridge. Upon a friend’s recommendation, I decided to eat at Mr Bartley’s, a Boston landmark for burgers.

As I pushed open the double doors at Mr Bartley’s, I was struck by the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries from the kitchen. The place was bustling with people chatting away and servers yelling out orders to each other. The walls in the restaurant were plastered with eclectic posters and sports memorabilia. I was overwhelmed by the burger selection on the menu so I told my server to surprise me with their signature dishes.

My excitement started to built up as I saw plates stacked with heaping amounts of food being brought out for other tables. I kept eyeing the kitchen door for my server as I sipped on the chocolate milkshake she had recommended to me. I can still remember how perfectly thick and creamy it was! The server finally brought my food out and I could see the smoke rising from the freshly grilled burger, which came with a side of sweet potato fries and a stack of onion rings which barely fit on the plate. Yet I still resisted the urge to pick the food off the plate with my fingers even after the server walked away. As a habit, I never fail to take a photo of my meals before devouring them because I like to keep a food photo diary. Snap. Up goes the photo on Facebook, where I share all my food photos with my family and friends whenever I travel.

I was finally ready to take my first bite. Excitement rushed through my fingers when I picked the burger up from the plate. As I sunk my teeth into the burger, I could taste the stupendous mix of meat and melted cheese in my mouth. Looking at the gigantic portion of burger, fries and milkshake on my table, I knew I was in America.