Where to Find Portland’s Best Burgers
The delightfully maximalist hamburguesa at Güero.
Technically, a burger requires only a patty and a bun. From there, things get versatile. Is the patty made with your classic ground chuck or did an industrious chef add oxtail or brisket to the mix? Did they forego the meat in favor of some kind of bean or mushroom mixture? Is it sandwiched between potato buns, brioche, or, god forbid, a pretzel roll? Is there cheese, and is it American? That’s all before toppings—grilled onions, housemade pickles, bacon, secret sauce, heirloom tomato, and on and on.
Portland has no shortage of burgers, whether in the form of a humble smashed patty at a food cart or an elaborate, cheffy indulgence (mercifully, the latter has faded in popularity over the last decade). Hit up your local diner or the nearest brewpub and you’ll likely find something serviceable, maybe even great. But for the best of the best, consider the list below.
Canard’s steam burgers elevate the fast-food slider to delicious new heights.
buckman
When Le Pigeon chef and co-owner Gabriel Rucker first announced that his casual wine bar would serve a burger, it wasn’t a huge surprise. But unlike the crispy smashburger of recent ubiquity or the rotund steakhouse burger of yore, Rucker opted for a fun-size alternative with far fewer defenders: the steam burger, that squishy, uninspiring slider of White Castle fame (or notoriety). The Canard steam burger captures the positive attributes of those burgers—the ketchup-sweet onions and pickles, the sedative comfort of American cheese—while turning up the gas. The evil genius secret: a packet of French onion soup mix massaged into the ground beef, amping up its savory characteristics and countering the sweetness of its accompaniments. Down a half dozen with a caper-brined martini or, during happy hour, a $3 Hamm’s. —Brooke Jackson Glidden
Why have one Champs burger when you can have two?
Brooklyn
If you were to look at a Champs cheeseburger, knowing absolutely nothing about it, you’d think it looks like any other smashburger you’d find anywhere else in Portland—crackly crisped beef patties stacked with a mortar of American cheese, plus a judicious splat of fry sauce. But that soft, springy bun is made in-cart with Cairnspring Mills flour, landing somewhere between brioche and shokupan. The beef is dry-aged, the American cheese from New School. And that’s just the standard cheeseburger. Specials have included a thick, juicy patty smothered with house–hickory smoked American cheese and what they were calling “brisket jam;” and a mushroom and Swiss number with shiitake marmalade and a chanterelle and kombu garum aioli. —BJG
Expatriate’s American Standard proves that simple is sometimes the best.
concordia
The forever-cool Northeast Portland cocktail bar Expatriate calls its cheeseburger the American Standard, a fitting name considering the kitchen’s approach. No, it’s not a smashburger, and no, it’s not a towering stack of toppings. This is a pure-of-form cheeseburger, a quarter-pounder of medium-rare chuck blanketed in American, with little more than some squirts of Heinz and French’s. But perhaps the most memorable part of the American Standard is the raw onion: perfect, plain white rings that add just enough fresh crunch. There are flashier things to get at Expatriate—the architectural marvel of its wonton nachos, the fried chicken sandwich with its charred fresno ranch and black vinegar pickles—but when I’m craving a plain old cheeseburger, this is the one I envision. —BJG
The lacy smash of a patty at Farmer and the Beast.
Farmer and the Beast
northwest district
This cart serves plenty of pretty summer salads with edible flowers and vegan mushroom melts, but, despite the name, its burger is the star. Two smashed patties, lacy with char but still juicy, alternate between slices of molten American. They sit on a nest of iceberg, with wispy strands of shaved onion and housemade pickles—some welcome refreshment after all that meat and cheese. Chef and owner Jeff Larson makes sure the sandwich is sufficiently saucy and messy, but the Franz sesame seed bun does a decent enough job keeping everything together. Don’t ignore the cart’s specials, which may involve burgers sporting poblano pepper spread or caramelized onions and Comté, depending on the day. —BJG
Gnarlys: all the pleasures of a fast-food cheeseburger with none of the animal product.
Buckman
At the Swan Dive, a bar and music venue at the eastern mouth of the Morrison Bridge, the “Dang Burger” comes with a pile of beautifully golden “sidewinder” fries. At first glance, it appears like a Whopper, sans tomato: a patty somewhere between a smash and a tavern burger draped with melting yellow slices, shredded lettuce, chopped onion, a few pickles peeking out over dripping “dang sauce” (Gnarlys’ take on Thousand Island dressing). Biting into it, the illusion continues as it hits the fat-and-sodium-seeking pleasure centers. If you somehow missed all the notes on the digital menu and sign outside, you might not even realize the “burger” you’re eating is plant-based and entirely vegan. No wonder Portland’s resident fast-food aficionado, Bill Oakley, calls it one of the city’s best burgers, period. —Alex Frane
Güero’s messy, indulgent, celebratory hambuergesa.
kerns
The minimalist burger has been in vogue over the last few years. Consider it a deliberate rejection of the mid-aughts’ everything-but-the-griddle burger, in which fried eggs and bacon and peanut butter and sriracha and, I don’t know, Peeps would all mingle between a pair of doughnuts. But torta shop Güero’s unapologetically maximalist burger doesn’t fall for the McOverkill’s traps—its toppings cohere. It’s not a cacophonous middle school marching band, but a 100-piece orchestra, with clear melodies and harmonies. Grilled onions and chiles play off pickled jalapeños, American oozes while queso botanero squeaks, slices of ham drip with Morita mayo’s earthy spice. And despite its ensemble cast, the hamburguesa’s smashed patty and sesame bun clearly signal just what kind of sandwich we’re eating here. —BJG
Higgins has been serving some of the city’s best burgers for more than 30 years.
downtown
The burger at this downtown institution comes with your choice of daily soup or salad, which clues the time machine of a meal you’re signing up for. That’s not to say this hefty burger ($27 once you add cheese and bacon) is a stale relic of years past. Higgins opened in 1994, and what’s old-fashioned about its burger is how real every ingredient is—hearth-baked bun, thick and bleeding patty, tangy aioli—down to the seasonal fresh and pickled vegetables arrayed on the plate. If you have reservations about making a reservation at the fancy bistro on Broadway just to order the burger, note that you can walk into the wood-paneled bar pretty much any hour of the day. —Matthew Trueherz
Javelina swaps the bun for fry bread in its Powwow Burger.
cully
It’s no secret that many a line cook have been loath to cook a hamburger. Yet that same lowly status—“flipping burgers”—makes it a standardized blank canvas and an ideal vehicle for chefs to tell their own stories. See: the Powwow Burger at Javelina, a pop-up-turned-restaurant focused on Indigenous cuisine that opened in the Cully neighborhood this spring. In chef Alexa Numkena-Anderson’s burger, smashed patty, shaved lettuce, and oozy American cheese stack between two pieces of fry bread instead of a bun. The flatbread is the burger’s calling card: Though it has the pleasant chew of an unsweetened beignet, this is no “doughnut burger.” Fry bread is a complex symbol in Indigenous cuisine developed in the late nineteenth century by Native American tribes that were forced to live on US government rations. Here, it stands as a modern representation of the long history of tribal cuisine in America. —MT
A cheeseburger, Chicagofied, at Sammich.
kerns
Large cuts of carefully slow-cooked meat are the pride of Melissa McMillan’s shop (her Instagram is @lesbianmeatmaker). You go for gluttonously towering pastrami sandwiches or perhaps a Chicago-style Italian beef. However, “Da Burger” deserves equal attention. Slices of both Swiss and American cheese are the kicker. The combo might seem like a small tweak, but it—and the option to add giardiniera—places this burger comfortably on Sammich’s menu of Chicago Italian American classics. It’s stacked just as high as the best pastrami you’ve ever had, and it will induce the same nap. —MT
Is the burger at Tulip Shop the Platonic ideal? You’ll have to see for yourself.
humboldt
While the upgraded version (“Double, Double”) winks toward a certain fast-food chain, Tulip Shop’s Tavern Burger lives up to its workaday title. It’s more substantial and shows more skill than any fast-food burger could (no gummy or cakey, disintegrating buns here), yet it’s surely no self-important restaurant or “pub” burger. It is the Platonic ideal of a cheeseburger as it lives in the collective American memory. The bun is fluffy but holds its own thanks to a nice griddled toasting. The patty is smashed, properly pressed for a lacey-crispy crust. And you know the rest—American cheese, shredded lettuce, crinkle-cut pickles, and a proprietary mixture of condiments dubbed “secret sauce.” A fastball down the middle. —MT
Wilder’s vegan burger doesn’t put on any meaty airs.
concordia
Unlike Impossible patties and other meat dupes, the vegan burger at this neighborly cocktail bar flaunts its quinoa and oats. Perched on a toasted, fluffy bun, the patty closer resembles a double-thick Gardenburger, or perhaps an oversize falafel. Crisped on the edges and soft and fluffy inside, it’s made with chickpeas and grains, liberally spiced and flecked with parsley. Roasted garlic aioli, a bed of arugula, and a side of pickles finishes things off. Does it taste like a burger? No. Is it as hearty and satisfying as a tavern burger? Absolutely. —AF
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