DECEMBER 12, 2025 | FEATURES | By Asa Gartrell
As I see it, two pillars span the great depth of American cuisine. From the cut-rate fruit of corporate algorithms to the marvels framed by the artist’s fingers, two mythical objects persist: the hamburger and the pizza.
So when my roommate, Sam Lain ‘26, approached me with a proposition to combine them for an unflinching review, my reaction was as incredulous as Colette’s when Remy dares to prepare Ratatouille at the Michelin-rated Gusteau’s in Ratatouille: “Pizza burger… It’s a peasant dish!”
But after a summer spent reviewing Portland’s pizza, I found myself uniquely positioned to address such an abomination.
I shook Sam’s sweaty hand and agreed to level the playing field with a six-hour fast beforehand. Because Sam had never even attempted to cook a hamburger.
“I can’t imagine it’s that hard,” he said. Oh dear.
Sam is, however, a capable guy. Over the past two months, he’s made it his mission to perfect one or two dishes a week.
From beignets (flop) to double-fried hot honey chicken (exciting), chicken pot pie (exaltant) to a three-quiche breakfast (revelatory), the qualities that make him a great roommate—enthusiasm, consistency, hailing from Kentucky—have made him a great chef.
And that is how I came to find the one-man-restaurant wearing blue nitrile gloves, shaping 80/20 beef next to every ingredient in Tony Soprano’s pantry. He prepared the unit in record time, named it the Inglourious Basterd (a reference to Brad Pitt’s botched Italian accent in Quentin Tarantino’s movie) and laid it before me.
Mmm! Big points for presentation. Between shining brioche pillows, a Tudor cap of mozz slumped under sauteed pepperoni, sweated bulb and arugula chiffonade—all pinned together by a 10-inch skewer.
As soon as I broke bread, I was hit with a flotilla of onions on a torrent of marinara. The patty was a true medium all the way through and refreshingly thick, not unlike its maker. Served skillet-to-table, it came out HOT!
I forget the drama a burger can carry when it doesn’t lose its verve to transition time on a chilly counter. By the second bite, the arugula really leapt to life, melding with the mozzarella and garlic to bring the burger home.
The sandwich was decidedly salty, with half of Italy inside it. Apparently, there were even shards of parm somewhere up there, but my taste buds never found them.
What it needed, Sam seemed to sense, was more action from the spicy tang of chili paste and red sauce. He came over and poured me a puddle to dip the little piggy in, and from there, it was all I could do not to engulf the rest. Head down, skewer out, I must have looked as peaceful as a narwhal playing in the deep.
As much as it hurts to admit, the pizza burger worked. It lived squarely within the formal constraints of the hamburger, but it tasted a lot like pizza.
I’m still not ready for the beef/pepperoni love affair, but if the next round charts a simpler course (perhaps with a dusting of cornmeal?), consider my napkin in my lap.
On the whole, I’d liken the Inglourious Basterd to the Brent Spence bridge between Covington, Ky., and Cincinnati, Ohio: a monumental handshake between two heroes of the American story.
As I write this now, having cleaned the pans that birthed the beast and worked my fingers free of its grease, I’m still uncertain if the pizza burger concept deserves a seat in burger canon. What I do know is that if I ever stand up from my cowardly critic’s crouch to make a hamburger of my own, I know who I’m calling for lessons.
My best to you and yours.