This Atlanta Burger Joint Has Some Of The Best Burgers In The South, According To A Local

On Carroll Street in Atlanta's Cabbagetown neighborhood, situated along a colorful block, a giant stuffed bunny sits atop a spider with a human skull for a face, suspended above a wooden sign with red lettering that reads "Little's Food Store." Stickers cover the windows of the shop's double doors, and to the left of the entrance, inscribed on its brick exterior, are the words "CAT goes here," with a downward-pointing arrow gesturing towards a newspaper stand (also sheathed in stickers). Little's has stayed true to this idiosyncratic style for decades. 

This is not without effort — owners Brad and Nina Cunard strive to keep Cabbagetown intentionally unkempt and unpolished. Here you won't find splashy signs with pithy copy that was workshopped ad nauseum by a marketing team, nor will you find bright screens with glossy images of hulking burgers dripping with sauce. What you will find is a space where humanity, hospitality, and simplicity are valued above the data-driven spectacle of "consumer desire," and one where you can get a damn good burger.

I recently saw an executive chef from a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris say that his favorite meal is a burger and fries. After attending culinary school and having the chance to work in a Michelin-starred kitchen myself, I, too, am but a hopelessly devoted disciple of the classic burger. I am, however, a purist, and when I order a burger out, I'm usually expecting disappointment. When a place respects the burger enough to top it with exceptional yet simple ingredients (a non-mealy tomato will make my day), I know I've found my spot. Any joint featuring 20 burgers with names too mortifying to utter — "The Triple Threat," "The Hangover Helper" — or constructions that resemble the Tower of Pisa earns my immediate suspicion. Little's understands quality, and they know a burger doesn't need to be bombastic to be exceptional.

Though I'm a relatively new Atlanta transplant, only just crossing the threshold to be considered a "local," what I lack in time I make up for in obsession. Atlanta is home to some truly fantastic restaurants, and is one of the most interesting and exciting food scenes in the U.S. After moving here, I immediately took to internet sleuthing to find the best burger in the area. A good burger is one of the few items I'm willing to put some miles on my car to find, and Little's happened to be one of the first that came up on my radar. It's since become a mainstay, a place I can go where I'll happily hand over my dollars for a meal I know will be consistently good.

In the increasingly corporatized dining-scape in which the burger finds itself, Little's is a bastion of originality and hospitality. Its farmhouse-yellow walls are adorned with construction paper cutouts that look like characters from a children's fairy tale (a bipedal green fox and a newt, among others), and its shelves are lines with knickknacks ranging from gnomes, books, bobbleheads, vintage felt flags, and an old butter crock. As developers pump out more luxury condos and dining concepts that are plagued by a sense of "nowhereness," Little's feels like a real place amidst the interchangeable milieu of modern architecture and restaurants that exist nowhere and everywhere all at once. For the latter, insecurity related to the establishment's lack of originality often seeks to correct itself through the menu, where burgers have become showy to the point of being histrionic. But the hallmark of a good burger isn't how wide you have to open your mouth to eat it, nor how outlandish its toppings are — something Little's knows well.

Little's is a haven for the decision-fatigued: the biggest choice the menu demands is how much meat you want, and whether or not you'd like lettuce and tomato. They have, on average, four burgers on their menu, all of which vary only slightly. What might be considered a trash burger (positive), all of their burgers come with grilled onions, American cheese, pickles, and yellow mustard, served on a potato roll, with a side of fries. The patty itself is simple and well-seasoned, pressed diner style and cooked most of the way through, with enough fat to keep it flavorful and tender. 

A note about the fries: they're good. Generally, it's hard to find a place where both the burger and fries are winning, and if one is good, there's a high probability the other will be bad. At Little's, the fries are fried to a deep brown that's closer to amber than gold. They're made from whole potatoes and possess a perfect circumference: thin enough to be crispy, but thick enough to evade that dry, crunchy matchstick quality.

Little's has a rotating menu of specials and other sandwiches, whose quality I cannot attest to, as my loyal patronage is solely for their burgers. For the record, I do opt for the lettuce and tomato. The tomatoes are small — Roma, I assume — and the lettuce is shredded iceberg, which makes for a cleaner bite than tearing through a whole leaf and dragging other toppings off along with it.  

When I entered the store on my latest visit, I was greeted with a "hey" so familiar it nearly made me turn around to see if it was meant for someone behind me. While I hung about the counter waiting for my food, only one other person who entered besides myself wasn't greeted by name — an issue I look forward to correcting soon.