Regional American Burger Styles: From Oklahoma Smash to Connecticut Steam

Order a burger in El Reno, Oklahoma, and the onions come smashed into the beef. In central Connecticut it may have been cooked in a steam cabinet. Albuquerque piles on roasted green chile, Milwaukee melts butter over the patty, and Salt Lake City adds a stack of pastrami. None of these came out of a marketing meeting. They grew from local ingredients, hard times, immigrant cooks and, in one case, equipment that never left the state.

Oklahoma onion burger

The story usually told in El Reno puts the onion burger in the Depression and Dust Bowl years, when beef was expensive and customers were struggling. A local hamburger stand stretched each patty with a pile of thinly sliced onions, which were cheap and plentiful.

That cost-cutting trick became the technique. Paper-thin onions go on the hot griddle, a ball of beef goes on top, and the cook smashes it flat so the onions press into the meat. As it cooks, the onions caramelize underneath and steam on top, fusing with the beef into a lacy, browned crust. Done well, you can't tell where the beef ends and the onion begins, and the onions add moisture and sweetness without tasting like filler.

El Reno still cooks them the traditional way on a flat-top, and the smash-burger boom has carried the style far beyond Oklahoma. The smash burger guide builds on the same technique.

Connecticut steamed cheeseburger

Steaming goes against everything burger cooks say about searing and crust, yet in central Connecticut it's the tradition. The steamed cheeseburger is usually traced to lunch counters around Middletown and Meriden in the first half of the 20th century.

It depends on special equipment: steam cabinets with small metal trays, nothing like ordinary restaurant gear. The patties and the cheese go into separate compartments and cook in steam rather than on a hot surface. The burger comes out very juicy and soft, with no crust at all. Because the cabinets are so unusual, only a handful of places make steamed burgers, which goes a long way toward explaining why the style never spread.

Fans call them healthier. No cooking fat is added and some fat renders out in the steamer, but it's still a cheeseburger.

New Mexico green chile cheeseburger

In New Mexico the question isn't whether to add green chile, but which chile, and whether it's diced, in strips or whole. The burger is central enough to the state's identity that its tourism department promotes a Green Chile Cheeseburger Trail.

The origin is disputed. One often-told story credits a bar in San Antonio, New Mexico, near the Trinity Site, where the first atomic bomb was tested. The owner served chile on the side in small bowls until, one day when clean bowls ran short, he put it straight on top of the burgers. Other restaurants and local chains tell their own versions.

The chile is the point. New Mexico green chiles, especially from the Hatch area, are roasted until the skins blister and blacken, then peeled. The flesh is smoky, earthy, a little sweet and fruity, with heat that builds gradually instead of hitting all at once. Under melted cheese, the chile juices run into the beef fat. Some places stir roasted chile into griddled onions, others lay whole strips across the patty, and the patty itself might be smashed, flame-broiled or griddled. Good roasted chile, ideally prepared that day, is the one fixed rule.

Wisconsin butter burger

Wisconsin's license plates read "America's Dairyland," and the butter burger takes that literally. It has long been a fixture of Milwaukee-area diners, and there are two schools:

• Butter on the patty. The diner method sets a thick pat of butter on the hot patty as it comes off the griddle. It melts over the meat and soaks into the bun. There's nothing subtle about it.
• Butter on the bun. The version popularized by fast-food chains butters the crown of the bun and toasts it. It's milder, and regional chains have carried it well beyond Wisconsin, though it's still most common in the Midwest.

Carolina pimento cheese burger

Pimento cheese, sometimes called the pâté of the South, is sharp cheddar mixed with mayonnaise, chopped pimentos and seasoning. In South Carolina it belongs on a burger. The style is usually traced to Columbia in the 1950s, where early versions are said to have spread homemade pimento cheese on the bun, then added a thin beef patty and a layer of chili. Over the decades the chili became optional; the pimento cheese never did.

Recipes vary: cayenne, Worcestershire, onion powder, garlic or hot sauce all turn up. What matters is melting the cheese fully, so it runs into the beef and soaks the bun instead of sitting on top like a cold spread. A proper pimento burger is wider than it is tall, on a thin bun that's well toasted or pressed. The cheese carries so much flavor that many fans skip ketchup and mustard. For another Carolina flavor, try the Carolina Gold Mustard BBQ Burger.

California burger

While other regions made burgers richer, California added avocado and sprouts. Early on, a "California burger" just meant one with fresh lettuce, tomato and onion, produce California grew in abundance when much of the country couldn't get it year-round. Today avocado defines it, which makes sense in the state that grows most of the avocados produced in the United States.

A typical build: a good beef patty, often better meat than the average burger joint uses, with ripe avocado, crisp lettuce, tomato and often alfalfa sprouts. Bacon, grilled onions or a house sauce sometimes join in. Some versions swap in a turkey patty, which purists say makes it a different burger. "California-style" now appears on menus across the country, almost always meaning avocado. The Turkey Avocado Ranch Burger is a lighter take built around it.

Utah pastrami burger

A beef patty topped with a pile of pastrami sounds like too much meat, but Salt Lake City has made it a staple since the 1970s. Pastrami burgers were already served in Southern California; Greek-American burger stands in Salt Lake City made the combination a local fixture. That's why so many of the stands serving pastrami burgers have Greek names, a mark of Greek immigration to Utah.

The usual build is a charbroiled quarter-pound patty, thin-sliced pastrami warmed through but not crisped, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion and fry sauce. Utah's fry sauce, ketchup and mayonnaise with seasonings such as onion powder, Worcestershire or a little pickle juice, is essential: its tangy creaminess cuts the double dose of meat. The pastrami's peppery edge suits the beef instead of fighting it.

Hawaii's loco moco

Loco moco has no bun, but a hamburger patty sits at its center. It's generally traced to Hilo around 1949. In the most widely told account, a group of teenagers asked a local diner for something cheap, filling and different from a sandwich, and got white rice topped with a hamburger patty, brown gravy and a sunny-side-up fried egg.

The dish reflects Hawaii's mix of influences: rice from the islands' Asian, and particularly Japanese, communities; the patty and gravy from American diner food. Variations swap the beef for Spam, teriyaki chicken, kalua pork, mahi-mahi or Portuguese sausage, and the gravy for a teriyaki-based sauce. Rice, protein, gravy and egg stay constant. It's the clearest example on this list of a region keeping the patty and rethinking everything around it.

Frequently Asked Questions

Can you make these regional burger styles at home?

Most of them, yes. Oklahoma onion burgers need only thinly sliced onions and a hot griddle or cast-iron pan. Butter burgers need good butter. Outside the Southwest, you can order roasted Hatch chiles online for green chile burgers. Connecticut steamed burgers are the hard one, because they depend on steam cabinets that most home kitchens don't have.

Why haven't these styles spread nationwide?

Some have: the Oklahoma smash technique is now everywhere, and California-style burgers appear on menus across the country. Others stay local because they depend on a specific ingredient (fresh-roasted green chile), special equipment (Connecticut's steam cabinets) or a strong local identity that never had a national marketing push. Part of their appeal is that they belong to one place.

What makes a burger a regional style rather than a topping variation?

Usually it's a distinctive technique, such as smashing, steaming or a butter finish, or an ingredient so tied to the region that the burger means something there. It's not just a burger with something on it; it's a preparation that reflects local history and ingredients, that locals defend and that outsiders recognize as belonging to that place.