DEC 12, 2024 | OPINION | By Asa Gartrell
The fork job. Whether daunting or dear, every burger eater inevitably encounters a specimen so saturated it cannot be cradled gracefully. The diner might feel stranded on the banks of a great wet mess with only a fork to ferry them to the far shore. On a crisp November evening a fortnight ago, I faced the final boss of all fork jobs: the Pueblo Slopper.
The beast originated in the 1950s when a man named Hank sat down in a tavern in Pueblo, Colo., and said, “Hey cookie, lemme get some green chili on that ground round.”
Instead of heading to Gray’s Coors Tavern, where the puppy purportedly emerged, I followed the wisdom of a friend and certified slopper-monger to Brues Alehouse on the cement banks of the Arkansas slough. All I had to do was sit down and say, “Slop me.”
Mmm! As I opened my face to the open-faced oddity before me, I was met with the unmistakable aroma of roasted Pueblo chiles. The green garnish varnished my mouth in zingy novelty, bringing a third dimension to an otherwise flaccid stack of fries, patty and vegetables. That gruel was heavenly. However, the frittered frites lost all crispy crunch and the taciturn iceberg and tomatoes left me wanting less… without the flat flavors of greenhouse produce, I would have been happy as a pig in slop. There was a clear division between principle (a scrumptious chile-burger bath) and practice (a rather insipid heap of starch and wet, bland afterthoughts to the tune of 20 bones).
I admit, it could have been more immersive if I had gone in hands first and swam in that quagmire. Looking back I wonder: had I, in my fork-fed frenzy, tried to civilize the slopper?
Overall, I’d liken this mud pie to the Staples office supply at 1411 US-50, just 9 minutes north of Brues: a regional staple. I’m sorry if that was cheap. It wasn’t cheap, but brother, it was worth the dough, was the Alehouse Burger, which blew my socks off in three bites and out slops their slopper any day. My best to you and yours.