THEN I STARTED hearing about this new burger joint in the Mission called Kelly's, and then I thought I would go there. We had band practice in Glen Park, and I was supposed to pick up our geetar pickist, who happens to live at 16th and Guerrero, so I figured, driving down, I could kill some birds with some stones, like I like to do – pick up some burgers and a guitarist, go to practice good and greasy.

No go. Literally. After sitting pretty much still for 45 minutes in late-Friday-afternoon bridge and tunnel traffic, I was running 55 minutes late for practice, which is too much too late, even by rock and roll standards. For a group whose groupies tend to live in retirement homes, it's cause for disbandishment. I wasn't worried about me, steel drum players being 75 cents a dozen, at least. I was worried about Wally, our guitarist. For his sake, I figured, we'd have to hold off on my bright burger idea until after practice.

I figured said figurings while knocking on his door, and when he opened it – here comes the pretty part of the story – he was holding his guitar in one hand and, in the other, a bag with a box with a burger in it. For me!

"For me? You gotta be kidding," I said, coulda-kissing him. I was starved almost to death, and the burger idea had only been in my head – he'd had no way of knowing. "Where'd you get it?"

"Kelly's," he said.

"You gotta be kidding me," I said. He wasn't even one of the ones who'd been telling me about the place. Turns out he'd been going there since it opened a couple weeks ago, and this day, that Friday, was their official grand opening, turns out, in celebration of which they were running a two-for-one special.

So I got to get the free one, which seemed and still seems too good to be true, and yet there it was: no mayonnaise, rare ... "At least it was rare 45 minutes ago," he said. French fries and everything, and everything was so good and spot-hitting, even 45 minutes old, that I kept right on figuring we could go there again after practice, this time on me. The thing about picking someone up is you generally have to drop them off, too. Right?

And it's later in the day, generally, and you're hungry again – or would be if your brother doesn't make about five pounds of ravioli for snacking on between songs. Goddamn, I love my band! No band eats better than we do, and by better I mean more. No band spends less time practicing at practice, either. Uuuuurp. Excuse me.

So I wasn't able to get to Kelly's again, so I wasn't able to get it hot, not until the next day. Goddamn, I love Kelly's Burgers. It's right across the street from the Albion bar, 16th and Albion, next to Katz, block from Wally's. They've got cutting-edge designer plastic chairs (very comfortable, thanks), these artsy green dangle lights (but also overhead fluorescent ones, thanks), and all kinds of old-time S.F. photos (including the standard unfinished Golden Gate Bridge one, thanks).

And, as if all that don't beat all already, get this: half-pound American cheeseburger, with fries, goes for $5.60, and everything's great. Good quality meat, cooked rare as you like – although you have to remember to tell them, or they'll make it well done. And even if you forget to tell them no mayo, no matter: it comes on the side, safely sealed in plastic. You got your lettuce, your tomato, your onion, your pickle, and you got quite a choice of cheeses, including Swiss, jack, feta, blue, and – get this – port wine cheddar (making for the second-most expensive item on the menu, at $6.25). There's also a Texas burger, which has a fried egg instead of cheese on it.

And there are one or two nonburger items, such as Philly cheesesteak, hot dogs, and – in the classic tradition of great burger joints all across this great land – vegan portobello focaccia. Except for soups and salads, everything, even the vegan portobello focaccia, comes with a handful of really good crispy fried potato wedges. Battered ones, with skin still on.