Cheesburgestan

So instead, I did what any rational person with no culinary experience and an unhealthy amount of optimism would do—I decided to start my own restaurant. But first, I needed inspiration. And for reasons that still don’t entirely make sense, I figured the best place to find that would be Uzbekistan—home to some of the world’s most historic Silk Road cities, and a deeply mysterious lack of cheeseburgers.
Armed with nothing but an overstuffed backpack, a questionable grasp of local customs, and the iron stomach of someone who still believed gas station sushi was mostly safe, I set off. Somewhere between Tashkent, where I mistakenly ordered something that may or may not have contained boiled sheep’s head, and Samarkand, where an elderly street vendor offered me food that was probably older than the city itself, it hit me:
I may never fully recover from this trip.
Uzbekistan had perfected plov, shashlik, and somsa—but where was the burger culture?!
I imagined a world where Silk Road merchants, weary from their journeys, could have enjoyed a massive, cheesy, unapologetically greasy burger instead of whatever medieval meat mystery was typically on offer. And thus, the idea of Cheeseburgestan was born—a place where burgers reign supreme, where cheese is a given, and where you’ll never have to ask, “But is it safe to eat?” (The answer is probably).
Here, we follow three sacred principles:
No nonsense toppings. If you utter the phrase “locally-sourced organic aioli,” you will be asked to leave.
Cheese on everything. You didn’t come here for a salad.
Strict hygiene standards. I’ve seen things. You will never have to.
So if you’re looking for a burger joint founded on bad life choices, unexpected Uzbek misadventures, and the unwavering belief that melted cheese fixes everything, welcome to Cheeseburgestan. Grab a napkin, leave your dignity at the door, and dig in.