A little over a month ago, I was at work one afternoon when I heard from my sister that Burger Up was closing. It's not an overstatement to say that I was stunned, numb even, as I tried to process the news.
So much has changed in my neighborhood, 12South, the past few years. It has become less of a neighborhood and more of a destination for tourists who want to spend the afternoon shopping at overpriced boutiques and eating at upscale, soulless restaurants owned by out of town restaurant groups or investors. It pains me to say this, but it's not really a neighborhood any more, at least not one that I recognize.
Gone are Portland Brew and 12South Tap Room. As of last night, Burger Up is gone, too. In a few months, Epice will be gone.
That's another story, though, and not one I want to write today. Today, I want to write about Burger Up, and how much I am going to miss it.
To me and to those of us in the neighborhood - the regulars, if you will - Burger Up was never just a restaurant. It was a gathering place. A place to take your family for dinner. A place to meet up with friends. A place to pick up takeout food on the way home from work. A place to sit at the bar and strike up a conversation with someone from the neighborhood you hadn't met. Burger Up was all of those things and so many more to so many of us in the neighborhood.
I have so many memories of Burger Up. My boys, 18 and 14, practically grew up there. My wife, Jude, used to read to Joe from the children's books that were up front at the hostess stand. Later, when he was six or seven, Joe and I sat at a table and played Battleship while we waited on our dinner, much to the delight of Burger Up employees and other customers.
Over the years, I ordered a thousand takeout meals from Burger Up on the way home from work. My trick was to order as I pulled into the parking lot, so I could tell Jude, truthfully, that I'd ordered on the way. This bought me a few minutes to sit at the bar and have a drink to unwind after a long day at work. I needed those few minutes to myself, always. A quick, friendly conversation with Troy at the bar. A Friday Night to take the edge off my day, maybe two.
I recall sitting at the bar several years ago with Doug Brown and Mike Matteson, my two closest friends in the world, when Doug was in town for Labor Day Weekend. Troy served us drinks, while we talked and reconnected with each other. Strangely, it made me proud to sit with Doug and Mike at my bar, in my neighborhood, among my people.
Before the pandemic, when Burger Up was still open until 10 p.m., I loved to stop by around 9 p.m. and have a Friday Night on nights when Troy was working the bar. The dinner rush was over, things were more relaxed, and we talked about, well, so many things. Music. Books. Plans. Life. Often times, Troy turned the music up as closing time approached and I sat there, content, listening, talking, and just being.
During the pandemic, when the world shifted on its axis in a way that frightened us all, Burger Up provided a sense of normalcy by staying open and serving takeout meals to people in the neighborhood. While so much had changed, it was reassuring to know that Jude and the boys could still order a Woodstock, a Bison Burger, or a Byrd, and I could bring it home to them for dinner. That simple thing meant so much to my family and me in a time of great uncertainty.
I think Burger Up was one of the first places I returned to, in public, during the pandemic. I vividly remember sitting at the bar when Troy was working - with customers only allowed to sit in every other bar stool - having a drink but feeling really, really nervous about it because of Covid-19. Troy and the other staff wore masks. I so needed the social interaction with others so badly after being isolated at home that I was willing to risk being exposed to the virus. It all seems so silly now but I can assure you, it didn't feel that way then.
The last few years, I almost always stopped by on the way home on Wednesday nights, after I taught class at Nashville School of Law. While I waited for my takeout order, I sat at the bar, had a drink, and made notes in my laptop to capture what happened at class that evening.
So often, a bar takes on the personality of someone who works there. Usually, it's the manager or the longest serving bartender who sets the tone for other staff and creates the vibe for customers. That was true during my run at Edley's more than a decade ago, when Julie, Ashleigh, and Cara were bartending there.
It was even more true at Burger Up. Troy Akers was, by far, the longest tenured employee of Burger Up. Miranda Pontes, who conceptualized and originally owned Burger Up, hired Troy in the early days. And he never left. And because of that and, more importantly, because of kind of person Troy is, he became the heart and soul of Burger Up.
As I think Troy will be the first to tell you, he grew up at Burger Up, and became the man he is today. Through our interactions with Troy at the restaurant, so many of us from the neighborhood were lucky enough ride along with on his journey, to watch him grow up. To watch him find himself.
Troy was Burger Up and Burger Up was Troy. In many ways, they beat with one heart. Many, many times, I drove by Burger Up, made the block, and peered in the front window of the restaurant. If Troy was tending bar, I found a parking place, and walked inside. Every single time, Troy's face lit when he saw me and we shared a hug or a handshake. I was home, even if only for a few minutes. Often times, before I could sit down at the bar, Troy already was making a Friday Night for me.
What's a Friday Night, you ask? Good question. It's a drink Troy and I invented on a night years ago, when I was sitting at the bar. Uncle Val's gin, Jack Rudy tonic, a splash of soda, and a lime. On that night long ago, I took a sip, and said, "damn, Troy, this tastes like Friday Night." He laughed and replied, "that's what we'll call it, then. A Friday Night."
Thus was born my all-time favorite drink. A Friday Night. Over the years, I probably had a thousand of them at the bar at Burger Up.
It's funny but every single time I sat down at the bar, there was a person, or a couple there together, whom I could tell were regular customers of Troy's. Which, for Troy, is the same as saying they were his friends. Always upbeat, always kind, always smiling, always giving of himself to to his customers. Troy's aura permeated the bar and, really, the entire restaurant. The employees wanted to be like Troy and to be liked by Troy, so they treated customers with the same love and kindness that he did.
In the end, to me, that's what Burger Up was about. Love. It's what Miranda Pontes wanted Burger Up to be about when she opened the restaurant. It's what she bequeathed to Troy when she left, and it's what Troy carried in his heart every shift he worked until Burger Up closed its doors for the last time, last night.
Love.
Love of customers. Love of service. Love of co-workers. Love of music. Love of life.
As sad as I am, and as angry as I am at Jim Lewis, the owner, for closing Burger Up, I take comfort in the fact that love can't be closed. Love is too powerful to be contained inside the four walls of a restaurant.
The love that was Burger Up will live on forever in the memories of those of us from the neighborhood who experienced it firsthand over the past 16 years. It will live on in the relationships between co-workers at Burger Up, some still there last night and others long since moved on in their lives.
Burger Up was never about the food, or the drink. It was about love.
And it always will be.
