
The burger: Turns out, my GPS wasn't on the fritz. As directed, I'd pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall just off I-35E, but by all accounts it appeared as if I was not in the right place.
Lesson learned: Don't be thrown by the lack of signage bearing the Volstead House name; owner Tony Donatell is going for the speakeasy vibe, which means that access to this restaurant and bar is available only by walking through another Donatell property: Burgers and Bottles, a casual neighborhood hangout that is exactly what its name suggests.
(Don't make the mistake that I did, which was calling Volstead and stupidly asking, "Am I in the right place?" because, Yes, you are. Chances are, you're probably standing in front of Burgers and Bottles while you're on the phone. I was. The very kind and patient staffer on the other end of the line did not treat me like an idiot. This scenario must happen with some frequency, and she's obviously created a well-rehearsed and wonderfully polite response.)
With the dipped-in-sepia word "speakeasy" being bandied about (the official name is the Volstead House Whiskey Bar & Speakeasy), I was hoping for maybe some kind of theatrical portal – a secret door, maybe, or a bookshelf with a hidden latch, or a phone booth with a false wall (I obviously read way too many Hardy Boys mysteries as a kid). Nope. Just a flimsy, Pier One-like black curtain. So much for dramatics.
Still, the difference in environments is startling. Cheery Burgers and Bottles is bright enough to spur thoughts of sun block. Not Volstead House. It's a former auto repair shop that Donatell has imaginatively transformed into a great-looking playhouse for grown-ups.
Half of Volstead House's charm is its small-ish scale – a shocker when the average suburban restaurant could double as an airplane hangar – and the other half is in its moody lighting, clubby details and enormous Wall-o-Booze (there's a near-encyclopedic whiskey inventory, a foundation for an impressive array of painstakingly produced classic cocktails). A tucked-away patio, also cloaked from prying eyes, was probably quite the warm-weather magnet.
Against this atmospheric backdrop, chef Jason Clubb is cranking out a fine burger, notable for its uncomplicated approach and sharp execution.
Its centerpiece is a mammoth 8-ounce patty, relatively thick but far more notable for the way it tends to hang beyond the bun's confines (the architectural term cantilever applies). It's an all-Angus mix of shoulder and chuck ("We wanted more fat, and more flavor," said Clubb), and the cooking method of choice is grilling over a gas-fueled flame rather than frying on a flattop stove.