Mmmm... That is a Tasty Burger!

Ferg Loves Me You Me You Both of Us

"You have to eat at Fergburger."

"You have to eat at Fergburger."

"You have to eat at Fergburger."

This was a common refrain whenever someone found out I was planning to visit Queenstown, New Zealand during my travels.

"You have to eat at Fergburger."

"You have to eat at Fergburger."

"You have to eat at Fergburger."

While I consider myself a foodie, and love a well-crafted meat-patty as much as the next red-blooded carnivore, I will admit that it started to get a little tiresome. Especially since the advice started over four months before I set ever set foot on the South Island. It was more remarkable since my initial research had me drawn to Queenstown for more ostentatious reasons. Skydiving. Bungy. Jetboats. Ridiculous Kiwi adventure sports.

I heard my first mention of Fergburger from fellow travellers in Brasil. As the months passed, it started sounding robotic. It was freaky. It was not just a little cultish. I developed this picture in my mind that I'd rock up to the storefront on Shotover Street and see throngs of the newly-converted, robed in bright white, emerging onto the pavement, all ruthlessly wolfing down hamburgers.

Now that I've actually visited Queenstown, I'm fully prepared to give you my own take on what you should do while you're there:

You have to eat at Fergburger.

The Big Al

As much as the the conscious skeptic and contrarian in me wanted to reject the seemingly slavish devotion to a hamburger joint, Fergburger obviously has this whole word-of-mouth advertising thing down pat. I suppose there was nothing my subconscious could do in the face of such constant and consistent hammering. Thus, that very first night in Queenstown, I got together with a group of like-minded individuals and we made our way out to see what all the fuss was about.

Our group pushed our way into the packed store around the dinner hour, and it took about five minutes before I got to the counter to place my order. I figured if I was going to get a burger, I might as well get the mother of all Fergburgers. The big mama-jama. A half-pound of beef with a few rashers of bacon, a crapload of cheese, two fried eggs, slices of beetroot, lettuce, tomato, relish and a large smear of aoili. The Big Al. It was only fair that I gave Fergburger the best chance to make an impression. Things went surprisingly quickly given the number of people milling around waiting for food. Another ten minutes passed and I received a heavy bag and a glass full of draft beer.

With our bounties in our hands, we sat down at one of the outside tables just next to the Shotover Street sidewalk. I unwrapped the bag I'd been given and took the time to survey my impending feed. I conceded that this was no ordinary hamburger. The thing was half the size of my head.

I took my first bite. (Not the easiest of tasks when the thing you're trying to eat is half the size of your head.)

And then my brain exploded.

OhmyGodHolycrapThisisthebestthingIhaveeverputinmymouthorattheveryleastthebestburgerIhaveevereatenJesusit'ssogoodHowamIgoingtofinishthisit'shalfthesizeofmyheadButIhavetokeepeatingbecauseifthisismylastmealonearthIwilldiehappyThisiswhatburgersmusttastelikeinHeavenHowmanymoredaysamIinQueenstownbecauseIneedmoremoremoremoremore...rargahhhaksdjwiuelasbcjakhsdsdkjabnzjquiqnmxsiuswkzkziaklalzooakgfkjabmnxbmbmnbsmjashkdywoiowhqohdiwhdoqiwhdkjsbknjbxcmznxbvcjsgdkajsdgkagsdawvcmzvcjhsagdkjagsguwvcmnzxbm

[cue whatever onomatopoeia might exist that conveys the emotion of raw carnal gluttony]

Worshiping at the Altar of the Sweet Bambi

The next day, I jumped into a one-hundred and thirty-four metre gorge with a glorified rubber band tied to my feet. About two milliseconds into the jump, I forgot I had that glorified rubber band tied to my feet. I thought I was going to die. Then reason kicked in, especially when I started my first bounce back towards the bungy platform. I was ecstatic to be alive. Because being alive meant I could get another Fergburger.

A Bombay Chicken With a Side Order of Crappy Pulp Fiction

I had a total of four-and-a-half days in Queenstown. Out of eighteen different Fergburgers on the menu, I ate eight of them. And while I didn't have time to eat my way through the entire menu, I made a good dent, and got in a good sampling of the various chicken-, vegetarian-, fish- and breakfast-burgers. They were all remarkably good. (So so good.)

The Bun Laden - Terrorism Puns Never Tasted So Delicious

(Not pictured: The Southern Swine or the Tropical Swine.)

The Codfather Was a Burger I Couldn't Refuse

The Dawn Horn - Or How to Cure a Hangover on the Early Morning Bus to Christchurch

If you're headed to Queenstown, you have to eat at Fergburger. You have no excuse not to. Seriously. Not eating meat is not an excuse -- the falafel-based Bun Laden was my second-favourite burger after the Big Al. Not having enough time is not an excuse -- the place is only closed for three-and-a-half-hours a day. 

In fact, the third happiest feeling I experienced in Queenstown (after the Big Al and the Thank everything Holy I'm still alive!) was finding out that Fergburger was open a half-hour early on the morning I left for Christchurch. This allowed me to sneak in an order for a breakfast-burger five minutes before the bus departed. If you'd seen me riding out that day, you wouldn't have seen me smiling. But only because the smile was obscured because I was so joyously stuffing my face.

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