Burgerers

English has a habit of naming people after the work of their hands. Bakers bake, brewers brew, and by that logic the people who make burgers for a living are burgerers. The language never got round to coining the word, so this name does it for them, and it does so with a grin.

In the kitchen sketch, the word goes to work. Three chefs in white toques and black aprons stand along a steel counter, each with the name stitched in gold across the chest. One presses a patty onto the grill, one lowers a sesame bun onto a tall stack, one pours sauce into a row of steel pots. Nobody looks at the camera. The name is worn rather than hung over the door, and that is the idea: the crew is the brand, and every apron is a signature.

A team that calls itself the burgerers is making a claim, and a cheerful one: that burgers are a trade with practitioners, the way joinery or cheesemaking is. That gives a buyer plenty of room for ambition. Picture a stand at a summer festival with a line bending round the next tent, a kitchen where each cook has to earn the apron, a menu signed by the people who make it. The logo already crowns its burger with five chef's hats. I like to think there is one for every member of the team.