Burger Friday: Is P. Terry's all that?

There are two reasons I can't stop thinking about P. Terry's, the vaunted Austin burger chain that has forged into Greater Houston during the past year.

One is the French fries. I wish I had some right now. I will extol them in a minute or three.

The second is the stirring Neo Midcentury Modern design.

Seriously, the original Houston outpost is the most glamorous fast-food burger joint I've ever seen. At dusk, lit up against the prairie sunset, in its signature shades of soft aqua and cherry red, it looks like some improbable shrine. Or at least a chapel devoted to America's holy trinity of burgers, shakes and fries.

I was curious to see if the P. Terry burger mystique held up here in Houston, now that there are two locations and counting. The Austin Barton Springs flagship and its many Central Texas offshoots are celebrated for value in their modest price range, which is on a par with the vastly more famous In-N-Out chain. (My take on that sacred cow is here.)

The P.Terry burger itself? Come along with me to Houston's first P. Terry outpost, where the northernmost fringes of Richmond meet the tail end of the Westpark toll road, just a few miles east of Fulshear.

PRICE: Double-double cheeseburger, $5.25; French fries $2.30; regular double chocolate shake $2.85, for a pre-tax total of $10.40. (The single cheeseburger clocks in at $3.65, and I think I might prefer it, given my experience with the double.)

ORDERING: You can drive through. Or go through the efficient, cordial serving line, customize your burger, pay up and seat yourself. They'll call your order number, and your food will appear at the counter's far end in a short, reassuring time that bespeaks "freshly made."

ARCHITECTURE: Salad stuff on the bottom, with tomato slices and iceberg topping a pink, Thousand-Islandy sauce and chopped raw onion if you've asked for it. (I require it for maximum burger enjoyment.) Then come the quarter-inch beef patties layered with American cheese.

QUALITY: My initial pleasure at the double cheeseburger's effect—goosed by my delight over the terrific fries and the shake—gave way to disillusionment once I was halfway through. The sandwich could have used more secret sauce for oomph—I'd ask for extra next time—and the beef flavor did not sing.

The patty was so vigorously pressed down on the flattop that its texture inhabited some weird zone between griddled and smashed, with the finer attributes —juiciness, crisp frizzle— of neither. The sear seemed half-hearted and unevenly applied. Any voluptuosity came from the superbly sticky melt of American cheese.

Still: I'd prefer the P. Terry burger over my local Whataburger/McDonald's/Burger King fast-food options any day of the week, both in terms of pleasure and of value. I'd drive through on the regular if one were near me. I'd take P. Terry's over In-N-Out, too, because the fries and shakes and atmosphere are far superior.

OOZE RATING: Condiment based.

LETTER GRADE: Tricky. During my first several bites, I would have chirped out "solid B!" But the double patties did not wear well. I grew weary of their dullness. By the end I would have given the package a C plus; it had stopped working for me as a sandwich, and I ended up wishing I had ordered the single.

BONUS POINTS: I thought my double chocolate shake was swell of its genre, with more of an ice-cream texture than a mystery stablilizer/emulsifier effect, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

And I adored the stick-skinny, skins-on French fries, with varied crisp/glazed/soft textures that screamed "fresh-cut." That's a point of pride here: as part of their merchandising, P. Terry's stacks big boxes of Idaho potatoes in the open kitchen. They deliver the fries in a clever tissue envelope that they tie in a little handkerchief knot, so that the fries spill out at either end. When you undo the knot, the red-and-white graphic surface shouts out "Hand Cut" and other attributes in midcentury style. Most amusing.

So, to my jaded heart, was a note on the ketchup dispenser that P. Terry's offering contains no high-fructose corn syrup. (It tasted just fine without it.)

When I reached the bottom of the pile of fries, a few well-browned end pieces lay in a twisty dark jumble. I gobbled every last one.

LOCAL COLOR: A diverse crowd of casually dressed suburbanites flock here, old and young, solo diners and couples, whole families spilling out of big ol' SUVs.

It's a joy to join them in this airy structure, with its clean lines, sleek banquettes and window-walls full of blue sky and cloudscape. I loved everything about the place: the amusing red-and-white graphics; the aqua metal barstools along the counter for solo diners; the big pendant globe lamps; the spiky plants ranged in a raised trough that would have been at home in a 1950s motel.

Even the covered outdoor seating in front had its quirky charms, in the form of cherry-red pillars ranged akimbo across the front facade.

And if you'd like a two-for to soothe the drive from inside the Loop, right next door stands a vast, top-of-the-line H-E-B where I was able to grab supplies.