Village Whiskey

Bourbon and burgers have long been two of my favorite food groups. But when I behold them side-by-side in their highest forms, posed on the zinc bar-top at Village Whiskey, it's clear this duo is the ultimate height of low-down American decadence.

With 150-plus bottles of bourbon, Scotch, and rye majestically arrayed before the mottled bar mirror to choose from, this is surely one of the city's deepest wells of dark-spirit luxury.

Add to this mix a splash of super-chef Jose Garces, and rest assured that the burger itself has also been given its gastronomic due. Ground in-house daily from grass-fed, naturally raised Maine beef, with different grind sizes for the various cuts in the blend, and an ingenious shaping technique that results in patties with a perfect end-grain (as opposed to one big bouncy smush), this is now my single favorite Philly burger.

One can top it with shaved white Alba truffles or creamy pads of seared foie gras, or a cool salad of sweet lump crab tossed with horseradish crème fraîche. But such gilding, aside from some cave-aged Vermont cheddar or smoky Oregon bleu, is hardly necessary. The liver, in fact, actually gets in the way of the primal satisfaction this $9 wonder already gives. With its ideal seasoning, meaty tenderness, and butter-crisped bun, its flavor lingers on my taste buds with the all-day mineral shine of a far more expensive cut of beef. The sweet amber sting of whiskey only intensifies the hum.

It's no wonder I saw so many other diners perched on the tall leather banquettes in this corner tap room in the same slow-motion tableau: two hands carefully gripping the house-baked sesame-seed bun, jaws moving with deliberate savor, eyes dreamily gazing off to some happy place, while a swelling puddle of juice collects on the plate below. It is that mesmerizingly delicious.

Unfortunately, such indulgence has its price: Good luck getting in, let alone a table for more than two. And God help the hungry soul who desires a seat at an hour commonly associated with eating.

"It'll be about one hour and fifteen minutes for a table," said the glib little host in sweater and wood-plug earrings from behind his clipboard at the entrance. This wasn't prime time - for which I've heard of three-hour waits. This was 7 p.m. on a Tuesday night.