Cheese fries. That’s all one really needs to know about Snuffer’s. Hand cut—by the look of things—and seasoned and coated with melting curd, they are gooey, sharp, and about as wonderful and oily as dripping potato strips can be. Burgers—and this is, ostensibly, a burger joint—on the other hand, are difficult to figure.

The classic American version crests the warm, husky sensation of fatty ground beef with a crisp, intricate, bittersweet char. Here it relies on a heavy dose of salt to convey flavor. Instead of the firm snap of iceberg lettuce sheaths, soft shredded lettuce is piled on top. Ask for bacon and you end up with small crumbles that spill (like the lettuce) from the bun. There’s no textural contrast, no hickory zing, no crunch—nothing but salt and a pile of green-brown vegetal detritus and bits of hard-cooked pork.

Depending upon the location, service can be prompt or sluggish. Sit in a quiet corner, they may not notice for some time. Once we waited on the patio for ten minutes before a waitress looked our direction. Yet the steady old place has a hold on the local population. After all, before the city’s burger renaissance, this was the place to go.