I’ve become increasing unwell since first seeing it. The stinking flesh pinecone that was served to me at Old Crow in River North. Baptized daily in waves of uncontrollable nausea. The sickening misshapen knuckle patty, cooked in a Vaseline Sous Vide has since spoiled burgers for me as a whole. I will always remember the granular tissue of the patty jutting out in every direction, cartilage rupturing through mucous covered smooth portions of the burger like breaching icebergs. I fear the permanence of it all. What was that sound I heard? That a pained squawk from the kitchen. The black feathers on the floor. Something unspeakable happened in that kitchen I’m sure of it.

The burger was made with hatred that much was certain. Born from a shrine of pure loathing. What could cause such unbridled abhorrence to be infused into a patty? I was extremely drunk and even through the all forgiving brain of someone nearing a blackout the burger was still discernibly an abomination in every sense of the word.

As the weeks pass and I crawl deeper into reflection, certain morsels of memory from that day surrender themselves. Pried loose from the shackles of repression. There was a crow in the kitchen that much I’m certain, wearing a tiny chef hat and a branded collared shirt. It appeared to be angrily mincing the patties with its tiny claws, its eyes terrifyingly black and indignant. Other feebler looking crows, malnourished and sickly, were being added to the pile of meat which the crow chef was mincing and grilling. The memory provides a satisfying clarity to the disgusting nature of the burger.

Old Crow is the most authentic crow burger you will eat in this city.