R.F. O'Sullivans

okay, here's the situation. the best damn burger in the whole fucking nation and, they left the meat on the grill so long. do i mind? mmmmmm, well, of course not.

that was neat what i just did there.

if i actually wanted to get married and settle down, buy a house, have kids, meet neighbors, go to parades, shop for school clothes at the mall, visit in-laws, make financial decisions with a partner, and learn to compromise, i would do it with a Burger from R.F. O'Sullivans. i would sing it to sleep every night and rub it's back. i would remember every anniversary and b-day. and i would let it's mother stay at our place when she got old and retarded. i would also tell my darling little burger, every day, that it was the most beautiful thing i'd ever laid eyes on, and would never forget the day we met.


ahhhhh, the deep, horny satisfaction of knowing you never have to look anywhere else for the rest of your life. for ground chuck.


now, i know this place gets thumb dings and high fives shoved up it's ass on a regular basis, and i'm not usually one to be a bandwagon jumper and join the crowd, but R.F. O'Sullivans burgers are off the fucking chain. you simply cannot beat what they do. and i know there are some John McClane's out there who will vehemently defend Bartley's as the pinnacle of the patty, but fuck that. if it was a foot race, O'Sullivan's is already sliding it's 1st place trophy in and out of some whore's ass in the back of a limo, and Bartley's is still breaking wind with it's junk hanging out of it's shorts at the starting line. Tough break, Bartley's, but i'll give you a nod for the junk.


in fairness, i'll paint the negatives for ya. it's small, so if you're heading out during prime time, expect a line. and the beer selection seems like an afterthought, so keep it business.


they'll have the game on. the staff is way friendly, although that one bartender dude creeped me out (but i think i was just way too baked on that one). they're not afraid to improv a dish or drink if you ask them (whatever the fuck that means, even though i wrote it), and all the food's made in plain view right behind the bar. nothing to hide, which speaks volumes.


oh and the "french fries" are really potatos cut into like 6 pieces and served stupid hot. more like roided up steak fries, and almost a meal all by themsleves. imagine potato skins not made into potato skins, if you will. and don't call me shirley.



i've gone about 8 times now over the last year, and i got a full on bone-rod for this place. join me, jackson.


RF O'Sullivan's
282 Beacon Street, Somerville, MA 02143
(617) 492-7773