At Smash That Burger, a truck in permanent park outside Rooftop Brewing Company, cooks press patties onto a hot griddle with conviction. Layer one on top of another and the crisped, lacy edges become a veritable geographic formation of beef, rippling outward from a standard-size burger bun. Somehow the center remains juicy. American cheese and a pickly house sauce trickle down the burger’s unruly sides.
A proper smash burger vaults above the sum of its griddled, melty parts. It’s an act of burger greatness. It’s also, annoyingly, a buzzword, often attached to specimens that are about as smashed as Rod and Todd Flanders on Easter
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