So how is this $12.75 masterpiece different from the dyed blob of ground beef you remove from cellophane and dump on the grill? Do you really want to know? We can start by talking about the succulent center: braised short ribs that taste like your grandma's pot roast but have been cooked even slower, even longer, even—sorry, Grandma—better. How about the sweet, oozing dose of smoked gouda that permeates the whole of the Vincent burger from the inside out. Wrapped around it all is a saucer-sized patty of beef with an indescribable depth of charred flavor that is never dry—which is some kind of miracle of culinary chemistry. But, wait, you say, an outsized, look-at-me burger like that doesn't belong in the well-bred refinement that is Vincent A Restaurant! Ask yourself, did Vincent put his very own name on his cassoulet? His bourride? His veloute? No. He put it on a big, sloppy burger and a "fast-casual"-sized plateful of frites. He knows every juicy, meaty drip on that white tablecloth is deliciously transgressive. Just don't call it an acquired taste.