When Roadhouse opened, just city side of Johnston Street, it seemed that Brunswick Street's burger quotient was already full. Grill'd had already closed its doors and Lord of the Fries was picking up any vegetarian scraps the existing burger joints were dropping. Roadhouse seemed surplus to requirements.
At least, that's what I thought until I unboxed my bacon cheeseburger.
I'd been searching around for a simple dinner early one evening and decided to give Roadhouse a go. After all, their low prices meant that I wouldn't be losing out. Foolishly, I decided that I would grab my burger to go, eating on my walk into town.
A waft of scent drifted up as I opened the box. This was my first clue that this was a burger of no ordinary kind. I took a tentative bite, and flavours exploded over my tongue.
Ye gods. I had stumbled upon the ultimate of burgers.
I'm not ashamed to say it. I wolfed down that burger in record time. There was something about it that made me eager for every new bite. Juicy without being greasy, tasty without being oversauced. The proportions of the various ingredients added up to a Mona Lisa of burgerdom. No, better: a Monet of the burger art.
It may sound like I'm throwing a big chunk of hyperbole out there but it's absolutely sincere. I have had few perfect burgers in my life (Iain Hewitson's Tolarno burger being one of them, with Huxtaburger definitely in the running) but chowing down as I walked into the city I was experiencing a burger in its highest form. Hewitson's burger is a Salvidor Dali kind of burger experience: surreal and wonderful; Huxtaburger is a kind of Andy Warhol of burgers. Roadhouse is Michelangelo: a perfect example of something the way it's meant to be.
One thing I do have to say is that burgers in boxes aren't easy to eat. I would have preferred a nice neat wrap to enable me to eat single-handed.
My experience at Roadhouse may have been a fluke. Regardless, I highly recommend this place to burger lovers. It's the closest you're going to get to heaven in this city.