Saturday, August 29, 1998

Thrills? Glamor? After lunch, please

By Bob Greene

SEYMOUR, WIS. -- For some reason -- one I'm not entirely enthusiastic about exploring too deeply -- my life, which I once foresaw as being filled with nonstop thrills and sparkling glamor, seems to be devolving into an endless series of visits to small-town storefront museums.

Thus passes the summer of 1998 -- and thus explains my presence on a recent afternoon at the Hamburger Hall of Fame on Main Street here.

The Hamburger Hall of Fame is exactly what it sounds like -- a building filled with doodads devoted to the story of the hamburger. Why here -- why in Seymour? Well, Seymour claims to be the place where the hamburger was invented.

Correct. This small Wisconsin town wishes the world to believe every hamburger every man, woman and child has ever eaten derives back to Seymour.

The story is this: A man named Charlie Nagreen -- "Hamburger Charlie," as he is known here -- came to the Outagamie County Fair in the year of 1885. Although just 15 years old, he apparently was a hard-working youth; he allegedly arrived at the fair in an ox-drawn wagon and set up a food stand at which he hoped to sell meatballs to hungry fairgoers.

Alas, young Charlie Nagreen soon enough discovered selling meatballs to fair patrons was not a sure-fire business proposition. How was an Outagamie County resident, on a hot summer day, supposed to go around to the various livestock barns and vegetable exhibits while holding a big, hot, juice-dripping meatball in his or her bare hands?

Young Charlie came up with an answer: Flatten the meatball and stick it between two slices of bread.

And so, according to the people of Seymour, the world was given the hamburger sandwich. The birth of the hamburger is given a different genealogy by other historians -- some say a German-American named Frank Menches first served hamburgers at the Summit County Fair in New York, still others bestow the honor upon one Louis Lassen of New Haven, Conn. -- but around here there appears to be no question that Hamburger Charlie was the genuine item. He apparently served his hamburgers first -- and he returned to the fair where it all began every year until his death in 1951.

The Hamburger Hall of Fame is meant to commemorate this. With the assistance of nationally known hamburger memorabilia collector Jeff Tennyson -- who has devoted his life to tracking down and becoming the proud owner of such items as hamburger teapots, hamburger candles, hamburger cookie jars, hamburger coasters, hamburger napkin holders, hamburger juggling sets, hamburger watches and hamburger salt and pepper shakers -- the Hamburger Hall of Fame is chock-full of burger effluvia.

Hamburger Charlie's image looms large over the place -- there is a color portrait by Wisconsin artist Randy Smits of Hamburger Charlie, wearing a white apron and holding a burger in his left hand, his likeness superimposed over the skyline, as it were, of Seymour, with Seymour's water tower amended so the top resembles a hamburger.

Each year, in conjunction with the Hamburger Hall of Fame, Seymour holds a Burger Fest, an event that is pretty much self-explanatory. One year the townspeople constructed an enormous grill (still on display at the museum) upon which was cooked what was claimed to be the World's Largest Hamburger -- 5,520 pounds. Pieces of this hamburger, it was reported, were "enjoyed by over 13,000 visitors" -- although, since the entire idea of the hamburger is based upon its portability, a 5,520-pound sandwich would not seem to make flawless sense.

The long-since-devoured 5,520-pound hamburger notwithstanding, you cannot buy a burger at the Hamburger Hall of Fame -- they don't make them. You do leave the Hall of Fame with a strong hunger for a hamburger -- any hamburger.

I found one on the outskirts of town, at a bowling alley whose lanes were not open for business, but whose bar was. The bartender cooked me a cheeseburger (all right, two cheeseburgers) while I put my money in the jukebox and selected the car anthem "Mercury Blues" by Alan Jackson three times.

If I had money, I tell you what I'd do,

I'd go downtown and buy a Mercury or two.

The cheeseburgers were great. Nonstop thrills and sparkling glamor can be highly overrated; summer afternoons, cheeseburgers and Mercuries are forever.

Chicago Tribune