Rich Lane L.
Google
So listen—we didn’t even dine in. This was takeout, and it STILL hit like it was made by someone’s Southern cousin who only cooks with love and butter.
First off, these burgers showed up THICK. Like, “catching stares at the cookout” thick. The kind of thick that makes you rethink every skinny burger you’ve ever tolerated. I’m talkin’ buns soft like R&B lyrics and patties juicy enough to file a complaint with your taste buds for not warning you.
I ordered the Avocado Ranch Burger and let me just say this in my best Jim Carrey-from-The-Mask voice: SMOKIN’! That avocado ranch sauce? Creamy, flavorful, and disrespectfully delicious. I wanted to dip everything in it—fries, onion strings, bills, regrets—you name it.
Now my wife had the Haystack Burger, and let me tell you, that BBQ sauce came with real bacon in it. Not flavor. Not “hints of.” ACTUAL bacon chillin’ in the sauce like it had rent to pay. Now look—I don’t even eat pork. But I took one for the team. And when I say that bite was fire? Forgive me, ancestors, it was worth it.
The fries were golden, crispy, and ready to be dragged through ketchup like they owed me money. The onion strings? Light, crunchy, and gone faster than I’m proud to admit.
Haystack Burgers might’ve been takeout, but they packed that food like they KNEW it was gonna be judged. And judged it was—10/10, no notes.
Frisco folks, if you haven’t been here yet… fix that. Immediately.