True to their name, the reason why Fat Guy’s Burger Bar, 140 N. Greenwood in Tulsa, is so popular is they honestly don’t give a big fat... well... you know.
We are continually inundated with so many justifications and rationalizations by the very people killing us with their own brand of nourishment that, yes, it’s nice to actually sit plop down in a burger joint that not only tells it like it is and how it’s gonna be, but does it with a big greasy cheese-eatin’ smile, nutritional value of these eats be damned.
Famous for the “Fat Guy’s Fat Burger Challenge” consisting of a beyond fully-loaded burger (8 slices of cheese, two hot dogs, a two-pound beef patty, 15 slices of bacon and so on) and a pound of fries to be forcibly downed in under an hour, mostly for bragging rights, the rest of their menu is just as pornographically gonzo, a shameless foray into bare-backing your aorta and raw-dogging them ventricles for nothing more than, at the most, ten minutes of truly Godless pleasure, but, for real, son, what a ten minutes it is.
True to form, Fat Guy’s allows you to choose your own destructor in the form of a make-it-up-as-you-go-along menu, happy to customize and personalize your own culinary end-times scenario. I, however, wanted (and needed) whatever blood was to be spilled to be on Fat Guy’s hands so I judiciously chose their top specialty cheeseburger, the emphatically recommended Fat & Juicy ($7.29) with a side of regular spicy fries ($2.49) for additional dietary distress.
Complete with its own ominous warning label (“Caution: The Fat and Juicy can be VERY explosive and hot, bite into with care!”), the Fat & Juicy’s main selling point is that its substantial bulk and bulbous girth is made up of two very thick and very beefy patties covered in butter and stuffed with your choice of American or bleu cheese; glory, glory hallelujah, I chose the American as well as grilled onions, jalapeno relish, green chiles and the other stereotypical burger accoutrements such as lettuce and tomatoes to fully make it my own.
With warm jets of thick, viscous cheese-product spurting from the sides of my mouth with every canine puncture into that well-done and gently-engorged meat product, the milky-yellow dairy flowed and flowed from every available opening and crevasse, creating a quickly congealing puddle of the best Wisconsin has to offer inside the wrapper, making quite the down and dirty little mess.
Though both physically and mentally overpowering, it all does come together to make for a deliciously ribald tribute to gluttony, with the masochistic charm of the butter and cheese parading about perversely with the sadistic sloppiness of each dribble-bound bite, no matter how small, drizzling down my chin and into my chest-hair. The overkill is fast and furious, continually daring me to finish more than half of the sandwich; slight dizziness and minor numbness smartly had me asking for a to-go box almost as soon as I had started.
Maybe you should consult your physician, or, at the very least, priest, before taking in a meal at Fat Guy’s.
The hand-cut fries, while tasty, offered no relief, their deviant blends of high-heat spices necessitating numerous refills of ice cold water in my complimentary cup. Fat Guy’s additionally offers a wide range of dipping sauces with each order of fries, from strawberry ketchup and caramelized onion aioli to Parmesan peppercorn and the singular volcano, but, throw ya hands up for La Raza, I took on the Mexican Ketchup and am a better man for it.
The Fat & Juicy is just the bloated tip of what the belt-loosening menu at Fat Guy’s has to offer, a Satanic majesty’s request that we’re all lucky resides peacefully in three Tulsa locations, mostly because I’ve already got enough explaining to do to my cardiologist and I don’t need this chunky monkey on my ample back here as well. Cómpralo ya!
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