Stop Smashing My Hamburger

Chris Knight | October 2, 2026

I have tried to remain silent about the smashburger.

I assumed it was a passing fad, like cronuts, activated charcoal, beet salads and microwave bacon. I believed that if sensible people simply ignored it, eventually the smashburger would disappear.

I was wrong. The smashburger has conquered North America. Apparently, every hamburger must now begin as a ball of ground beef placed on a scorching griddle, then violently flattened by a cook wielding a metal spatula with the enthusiasm of someone squishing a large cockroach.

I understand the theory. Smashing creates greater contact with the cooking surface, producing a crisp, caramelized crust around the edges. This is called the Maillard reaction. It’s legitimate culinary science. But so is fermentation, and nobody is demanding that I ferment my hamburger.

The problem is that we’ve taken a perfectly reasonable cooking technique and turned it into a religion. One patty is never enough. There must be two, sometimes three, each covered with an orange square of industrial cheese that appears capable of surviving atmospheric re-entry.

Then comes the “secret sauce.” Really? It’s mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, relish and perhaps a dash of paprika. Your grandmother knew about it in 1967. She called it Thousand Island dressing.

This entire construction is then placed inside a tiny brioche bun that immediately surrenders. Take one bite and the burger begins evacuating in several directions at once. Pickles shoot onto the plate; cheese adheres to your fingers; sauce travels down your wrist. By the third bite, you require several napkins and possibly a change of shirt. The only time you should need a bib to eat (unless you’re in a highchair) is at a lobster feast out East.

And yet, we’ve somehow agreed that this is progress. Gee, I remember when a hamburger was primarily about beef. A proper hamburger had a thick, aggressively seasoned patty, cooked over a flame until beautifully charred outside and juicy within (I like mine pink in the middle, not grey). It had lettuce with crunch, ripe tomato, onion, pickle and perhaps some good cheddar.

Most importantly, it possessed structural integrity. You could pick it up. You could put it down. You could have a conversation while eating it without looking like you had just changed the transmission in a ’78 Buick.

I’m not demanding that smashburgers be outlawed. It’s a free country, and consenting adults should be allowed to flatten their lunch however they please. I ask only for tolerance. Leave some burgers unsmashed. Let beef be thick again. Let cheese taste like cheese. And please, build a hamburger I can eat without having to roll up my sleeves.

Stop smashing my hamburger.