By Janie Stewart*
First Person - The news that American chain In-N-Out Burger was opening a pop-up shop in Kingsland, Auckland, today was cause for excitement in my house.
In-N-Out Burger is a California-based chain. Photo: Frederic J. BROWN / AFP
My husband and I were fans after a few trips to the US in our pre-baby days and since it would probably be years before we were on the same continent as those burgers again, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.
We came up with a plan. We would get there at 10.30am and my husband would drop me off to stand in line, while he found a car park and took the baby for a walk. Then I'd drop him at work by 12pm. I even came up with a name for the event - the Family In and Outing, which I thought was witty and clever. My husband expressed his opinion in eye-roll emojis.
We arrived right on time and I joined the line on the corner of Central Road and First Avenue, a mere block from the Portland Public House where the burgers were being sold. It was perfect. When service started at 11am I'd be through those doors in half an hour, maximum.
An In and Out staff member walked down the line handing out wristbands like it was a music festival. Surely it was a sign that we, the chosen few - or many - would soon have burgers in hand. I texted my husband to say how lucky it was that we got there when we did.
"I can smell the burgers cooking and I think things will go quickly once it hits 11am," I wrote.
And so the wait began. I read a trashy novel on my phone and felt my neck start to burn in the sunshine. Luckily I'd brought sunblock so I slathered it on, but I'd left my drink bottle behind. I didn't really need water for what would only be an hour's wait. Behind me, two friends talked about concerts, festivals, unflattering mosh-pit photos of themselves, who they were hooking up with and whether there was a chance they could be pregnant.
As the sun beat down on us mercilessly and their conversation turned to vaping, I messaged my friend in Christchurch, begging her to magically appear and save me.
"Ohhhh gawd," she messaged me back. "I hope the burger was good!"
I wished I could say that it was, but I was still in line. And that line was barely moving, even though service had started long ago. The heat was becoming savage. I could feel the sweat rolling down my back. I finished my trashy novel and silently agreed with the girls behind me - their flatmate's culinary and hygiene habits did sound disgusting. Who leaves a pot of mince on the stove all night and then just puts it in the sink?
Reporters and camera-people from various outlets trawled the line, which now stretched indefinitely around the corner and into the horizon, talking to people wearing In-N-Out Burger t-shirts, In-N-Out Burger socks. Why were we in line? By that point, I couldn't even say anymore.
I downloaded Erik Larson's book Thunderstruck, about famous murderer Dr Crippen. A little vicarious homicide seemed very appealing. The line inched forward. Every so often my husband strolled by with the baby, both looking relaxed and cool in the shade.
"When I get to the top of the line, I'm going to buy all the burgers they have. All of them," I text him at 11.27am.
One of the fabled In-N-Out burgers Photo: AFP
Time slowed to a crawl. My skin sizzled as I crept closer and closer to the shade of the pub building.
"I AM IN THE SHADE AND IT IS GLORIOUS," I text at 11.49am.
I messaged my Christchurch friend again at 12.07pm. "I wish I could leave, but I'm so close now. It can't be for nothing. I might never want another burger after this."
"That is a bold amount of time to wait for a hamburger," she replied.
Considering I had waited three hours in line to see Michelangelo's David at the Galleria dell'Accademia in Florence and was already up to an hour and a half for a burger, she was not wrong.
And then, a soul-crushing two hours since I had joined the line, I was finally at the top of it. The woman ushering people inside in small groups asked if we wanted keychains or stickers. In the ancient Roman tradition of the memento mori to remind them of their mortality, I took a keychain as a memento of my idiocy. Finally, finally, I was allowed inside, bathed in the sweet breath of airconditioning and meat patties.
"I'll have two double-double combos," I told the woman at the counter.
"Sorry, it's only one burger per person."
I stared at her stupidly. "But I'm ordering for my husband. He's outside with our baby."
"I'm really sorry. But you can order two drinks and chips."
So I did. And then I phoned my husband to tell him, with a distinct edge of hysteria to my voice, that we would be sharing a single burger. But we would have our own Cokes and chips, those exotic items that couldn't be found anywhere else but here.
To add insult to injury, the chips weren't even chips. They were crisps. Ready-salted, probably with the tears of all the suckers like myself who had waited in line for them. I hadn't read the fine print of the event. I hadn't read any print at all. I was too busy coming up with a clever name for it. The Family In and Outing - only marginally less funny after two hours in the blinding heat.
As I drove my husband to work an hour late, he ate half the burger and handed me the other half.
"You could savour it, you know," he said.
I didn't even look at him as I pulled the last bits of melted cheese off the wrapper and ate them. All I had to show for two hours of my life was a cheap wrist band and a patch of sunburn that was inexplicably under my t-shirt. The baby slept on, oblivious.
* Janie Stewart is a former journalist and somebody who likes her burgers, as long as they don't take two hours.
