Burger Friday: Vacation isn't complete without Tyler's

The burger: "Has it really been a year?" asked Roxy, recognizing us as we walked through the screen door and into Tyler's, the most-excellent burger joint in downtown Palm Springs, Calif.

Let me backtrack for a moment. Twenty minutes earlier, my husband and I had just stepped off the airplane, picked up our rental car and made a beeline for what has become a daily winter vacation ritual: Lunch at Tyler's. Here's a telling indication of how much we love the place: During our recent eight-day stay in Palm Springs, we found ourselves at Tyler's seven times. Trust me, it would have been eight, but the restaurant is closed on Sunday.

That figure may seem, well, extreme. After all, there are other restaurants in Palm Springs. This was not the case when we first began making annual escape-from-winter visits to the California desert more than a decade ago, and today there are a surprising number of decent options, including Birba, Workshop Kitchen + Bar, Matchbox, Tinto and Jake's, to name a few, and we avail ourselves of them at dinner (or, in case of Cheeky's, breakfast). But for lunch, we somewhat religiously set aside an hour in the afternoon, every afternoon, for a full-on Tyler's immersion.

And why not? For 20 years, owner Diana DiAmico has vigorously embraced a keep-it-simple approach to burgers (and to the rest of her highly appealing menu), and the strategy works, big time.

Fresh is this kitchen's mantra. Particularly when it comes to the burgers, the house specialty. Every morning, the beef gets a coarse grind, is sparingly seasoned and then loosely formed into whopping 7-oz. patties. Each one is expertly grilled on a well-worn flattop until they hit that sweet spot just above medium-rare, and the beef exudes a slight sweetness and plenty of juices. It's the kind of patty that fuses itself to the bun's bottom half. DiAmico sources a first-rate bun from a local baker, a rich, sturdy, golden thing, and it gets a gentle toast before meeting that sizzling, slightly charred patty.

The pile-ons don't stray too far afield from well-trod Burger 101 territory: Swiss, American or Cheddar cheese (skip the Swiss). Raw or grilled onions (get the latter, they're nudged to a soft sweetness). Several pert layers of iceberg lettuce. A decent tomato slice and a few does-the-trick pickle chips. A criss-cross of first-rate bacon. Half an avocado, thickly sliced and creamy. Generous swipes of Heinz ketchup and French's mustard.

It all adds up to a pinnacle burger experience, primarily because its beauty lies in the absence of modern cooking techniques and fancy-schmancy toppings. Instead, there's just time-tested, supremely confident, wrapped-in-white-paper burger engineering. No wonder we're regulars, right? Well, as much as one-week-a-year visitors can be. "Goodbye, guys," said Roxy after our final lunch. "See you next year, right?" Right.

Fries: Extra ($3.50 and $4.50), and a familiar, universally distributed frozen product. They're treated well in the Tyler's deep-fryer, yanked just as they achieve a crispy, lightly golden timbre. One quibble: Not enough salt. But hey, it's health-conscious southern California, right?

In other words, they're fine. But anyone craving starchy tubers should turn their attention to DiAmico's life-affirming potato salad ($4.50).

To say that I adore it is an understatement. Just like the burgers, this addictive concoction reflects what Tyler's is all about. After all, this is the place that abides the following motto: "Sometimes it's food that jogs the memory – that's the best food of all. We call it comfort food. When life threatens to overwhelm, its goodness and simplicity are a reminder of childhood and it offers the most satisfying emotional nourishment."

Exactly. My goal for the upcoming summer is to do my level best to replicate the formula, which DiAmico based on her mother's recipe, or least what she can remember of it. Of this much, she's certain: it's simplicity itself. Russets are boiled in their skins, then cooled to room temperature. They're peeled and the cooked potato's flesh is broken into bite-size pieces, with a texture that hovers somewhere on the continuum between mashed and baked.

From there, out comes thinly shaved white onion, tiny snips of crunchy celery, bits of hard-cooked egg whites and a dusting of finely minced chives. Holding it all together is a generous wallop of mayonnaise that exudes a slightly pale golden cast; the color comes from hard-cooked egg yolks and a dash of Dijon mustard.

When it's gone, the usual alternative is coleslaw ($3.50). This is not a second-best kind of situation. Like the potato salad, DiAmico's coleslaw embraces simplicity, just a small mountain of crunchy coarsely julienned cabbage, liberally finished with chives and a punched-up dressing that doesn't slavishly follow the usual (and frequently off-puttingly sugary) slaw formula.

Beyond burgers: Vacationers cannot live by burgers alone (had I consumed seven Tyler's burgers over the course of eight days, I would have questioned my ability to squeeze into my coach-class seat for the flight home). Fortunately, DiAmico has a knack for soups, and prepares a different one every morning from a wide repertoire, skillfully nurturing flavors out of a kettle. One day last week I made a meal out of hearty, stew-like lentil soup fortified with Israeli couscous, and the next day I found myself equally impressed by an intensely colorful carrot puree, each spoonful teased with a dash of sweet curry. In hindsight, I should have sampled DiAmico's every-Friday clam chowder. At least I now have something to toss on my 2016 to-do list.

I also once made the mistake of ordering a whole egg salad sandwich ($8.25), a terrific less-is-more exercise that's little more than coarsely chopped hard-cooked eggs (enough to conduct a smallish Easter egg hunt), mayo and maybe some green onion. Never again. I can barely finish a gargantuan half-order; the same is true of the equally impressive (and similarly bell-and-whistle-free, in a good way) chicken salad sandwich ($9.50).

Where to sit: In my nascent encounters with Tyler's – we're talking maybe 2004 -- I played tourist and followed the crowd, penciling my name to the ever-present list and then waited – and waited – for a table on the canvas-sheltered patio. And I did it without complaint. After all, it's a quintessentially southern California kind of setting, nicely shaded and usually brimming with all kinds of people-watching potential.

Even so, I'm an impatient diner, no more so than when I'm on vacation. Eventually I discovered an alternative, and I've rarely returned to the patio. (Truth to tell, I'm not sure if I was the one who stumbled onto it, or if it was my husband, who loves Tyler's even more than I do; naturally, I'll take the credit). Our strategy involves a trade-off, but it's worth it. We skip the fresh air and take a seat indoors (the modest structure, with its distinctive pointed-arch windows, dates to the 1930s and once served as the city's bus station) at the counter, an eight-seat perch just opposite the postage stamp-size kitchen.

Second, the service is astonishingly good, thanks to a pair of longtime Tyler's vets. The counter is Judy's domain; the half-dozen stools set against the wall – and the handful of tables on the adjacent front patio – are Roxy's territory.

Both appear to possess more energy than the standard-issue whirling dervish, and they know their stuff. Judy (she's pictured, above) has logged 19 years at Tyler's, Roxy is in her 11th, and their multi-taskers-to-the-nth-degree expertise is a wonder to behold.

Observing them go about their workday has a kind of In-the-Presence-of-Greatness aura. They keep the counter so sparklingly spotless that the staff at nearby Desert Regional Medical Center could use the place to perform day surgery; I fully expect to walk in one day and see Judy and Roxy wearing t-shirts that proudly read, "If you have time to lean, you have time to clean."

Third, the counter is a reliably no-wait situation, at least as the afternoon stretches on. Our routine is to hang out by the pool until our sunblock cries "Uncle" – that's usually by around 2 p.m. – and then we head downtown, hopefully avoiding the brunt of the lunch rush. It usually works, and we're seated immediately.

Dessert? Sure: The nostalgia-inducing shakes and malts are something of a must-order. They're prepared using a fantastic vintage Hamilton Beach milkshake mixer (its mint color is reminds me of every 1960s Woolworth's store) that I covet every time I see it. DiAmico has two of them – one came from Hadley, the nearby landmark orchard, famous for decades for its dates, and date shakes – and she worries about a decided lack of spare parts. I would, too; I can't imagine Tyler's without them.

Palm Springs improvements: After years of slogging through some of the dreariest baked goods imaginable (which makes sense, I suppose; when the default attire is swimwear, no one wants to come near a complex carbohydrate, right?), the city has recently sprouted two first-rate bakeries. Hurrah.

Peninsula Pastries, located about six blocks south of Tyler's and the work of a husband-and-wife team of French expats, turns out gorgeous croissants, pain au chocolat and other skillfully prepared indulgences. Just walking in and gazing was a joy.

Then there's Townie Bagels, which is performing boil-and-bake miracles in this bagel-starved region. They're currently available Saturday mornings at the Palm Springs Farmers Market (and Wednesday morning at the nearby Palm Desert Farmers Market), as well as via delivery (Cost is $26 for 15 bagels with cream cheese, or 18 without). Owner Andy Wysocki also bakes a few breads – DiAmico relies upon his dense cranberry-walnut, sourdough and multigrain loaves for her sandwiches – and the friendly guy behind the table at the farmers market told me that Wysocki's plan is to open a retail outlet just south of downtown Palm Springs, hopefully by early May.

One more happy surprise: Ernest, a coffeehouse/wine bar hybrid which takes a serious approach to coffee (the beans are from third-wave kingpin Stumptown) and baked goods, but doesn't appear to take itself too seriously.

Cash is king: Forget about plastic. Tyler's operates on a strict cash-only basis.