Patty-smashing was a common sin amongst the new-style chains like Nifty Fifties, Zack's and the upstart Great Burger. A stellar burger at the Delaware-based Jake's (smashed only once, in its early stage) survived quite nicely.

But I observed many other ways for good burgers to go bad, despite some hefty price tags. I saw topping travesties like the jicama-carrot chopped salad dumped over the otherwise stellar Rae burger, or the low-grade pastrami wadded atop a patty at Snackbar.

More than a few trendy kitchens simply couldn't hit medium rare, like Washington Square, or Loie, where the condescending manager regarded our juiceless gray burger and informed my guest (Inquirer food editor Maureen Fitzgerald) that she simply didn't know what medium rare was.

I also witnessed a shocking amount of bun abuse - the chewy, oversized rustic rolls at Monk's, an actual stale one at Smith & Wollensky.

I'm perfectly happy with a classic sesame-speckled white-bread roll browned off the grill. But I've also come to appreciate some of the better brioche-style buns that local bakers, like the Wild Flour Bakery, have begun to perfect.

Lightly toasted and wrapped around one of my favorites - fresh from the grill, the charry crisp of well-seasoned meat giving way to a crumbly center of juicy pink - it's like holding a masterpiece in its ideal frame.

Everybody has a primal food, and for me it has always been the cheeseburger. As a little kid, it was the only thing I'd order - even if the restaurant was Chinese. As a young adult at college, my first hands-on experience with "gourmet" flavors was mixing and matching the exotic toppings (blue cheese? caramelized onions?) for the freshly ground little patties at Krazy Jim's Blimpy Burgers in Ann Arbor, Mich., where you can even go for the five-burger "quint"! Jim's boasted 1,245,760 possible combinations, into which I made a fair dent.

But my obsession wasn't exclusively high-end. When I became ill on a trip to Mexico City (my first venture abroad), I was nursed quickly back to health on two Big Macs. While living in Paris, soaking in every gastronomic Euro-wonder the city could offer, I sneaked more than few times into the golden arches of "McDo's." The French, for all their culinary prowess, can't cook a burger to save their lives.

Can Philadelphians? Oh yeah. Make some room, my cheesesteak faithful. This is a cheeseburger town now, too.

Sing it: 'Cheeseburger, I Hold'

Truffles fall like snowflakes, on my plate

Sparkling crystal goblets always brim with wine

I can eat anything that I want, 'cause it's my job

I'm a hungry man for hire.

And still, nothing sets my soul to sizzle

Like a fresh-ground patty on the grill

CHORUS:

Cheeseburger, I hold

Mischief heart of liquid bleu