9 Popular Burger Toppings That Aren't All They're Cracked Up To Be

We may receive a commission on purchases made from links.

If you're in the U.S., then you know we can't seem to eat enough burgers. In fact, we eat them in extensive quantities — a whopping 50 billion annually; to be precise. Of those burgers consumed, every resident will have their preferred condiments and garnishes, regardless of whether they were assembled by a restaurant or backyard cookout. We might ask how many toppings are too many on a burger, but a better question might be — are they actually good? 

Plenty of fixings are popular because they have good reason to be, but are they popular because we don't know a world without them? I'll freak out over a good cheeseburger. I have consumed a fair share of them since childhood, beginning my love affair with the Happy Meal before sampling the "gourmet" standards of chains from Shake Shack to Five Guys. Although I'm partially biased to classic smash burgers with all the fixings, I've gobbled enough Quarter Pounders and Dave's Singles to cultivate some pretty strong opinions. As it stands, there are "old reliables" I've ended up finding disappointing (if not overrated). 

Know that not every topping is listed here out of some deep-seated hatred. Some of these I do like independently or just prepared in a different way; others I just can't stomach, which will encourage some to agree to disagree. With that in mind, I'd like to dig into the nine toppings I don't think are all that cracked up to be. 

One topping that doesn't get called out enough — at least among burger connoisseurs — is the tomato. Yes, they offer sun-ripened flair to meat-heavy specialties, and they remain among the lineup of sandwich-building necessities, a sacred cow. What textbook sandwich doesn't include a few ruby slices as part of the works? However, I have a bone to pick with them: they're simultaneously slimy and tough. It's like I have to nibble my way around their presence — I can't just chomp down into my double cheeseburger and not expect to pull out the stringy remnants. 

This presents another issue, and that's often how they're sliced. If the rounds are too thin, the skin peels away and leaves all that juicy residue to contend with. When they're thicker in size, it's not much better either — I've had hunks that could have been plucked out of a Caprese salad tucked between the onion and lettuce. Plus, they also don't lend much flavor pay-off — an element many burger-slingers seem to repeatedly disregard. Good garnishes can make or break a burger, so I don't think it's out of line to want more from them. Unless you're into that seedy, membrane-y mush pile that occurs, take a rain check the next time you hit the drive-thru.

Canned toppings are an exceptional resource for your next burger at home, and a common standby for labor-free flavor are jalapenos. Bright and full of fire, how can spice-lovers like myself have any problem with them? Jalapenos bludgeon your tastebuds with the acidity, and it's hard to shake away its flavor from your mouth. Normally I encounter them as large rings, which kind of makes matters worse — every bite you take tastes agonizingly zippy, so attempting to suss out the other flavors you hope to get from additional fixings is essentially moot. They envelop everything around you. 

As I said above, spice is a totally welcome addition where hamburgers are concerned, and there's plenty of avenues to attain mouth-lashing heat. Whenever I'm in the mood to sweat just a tad, I reach for diced green chiles, especially if I'm craving Southwestern flavor; the 4-ounce cans from Old El Paso are cheap and have never steered me wrong. I also like spooning a little Trader Joe's Chili Oil into my mayo. Both produce a great zing and perk up the tamer elements of a classic cheeseburger, but they don't overwhelm the rest of the goodies stuffed in there. Where balance is concerned, jalapenos get a pass from me.  

Ketchup on a hot dog, food chauvinists tend to decree, is one of the vilest of sins. However, I don't put the tomato staple on this list because I think it is an "incorrect" topping. My personal gripe with the condiment, burger-wise, boils down to its sweetness. It's too, too sweet. The sugar content rears its head when paired with the burger patty, and it's that cloying, artificial taste that clobbers the tongue from tasting anything else. 

It's just redundant, too. If I'm already dunking fries in ketchup, it isn't necessary to smear the rouge dip on the sandwich as well. 

Eaten this way, all that springs to mind is my grandma's meatloaf (who, like many grandmothers, excels at this symbol of Depression-era resourcefulness). If the comfort dish is what I craved, I wouldn't be ordering a cheeseburger in the first place. Haven't we squirted that 32-ounce Heinz bottle enough over the last century-and-a-half to get a little tired of it? In my opinion, a cheeseburger stands tall with condiments that veer savory, helping cut through the fatty beef. Those nondescript "special sauce" spreads mixed of mayonnaise with relish and hot sauce work better for the task. Heck, some renditions might include a squirt of the beloved Heinz for good measure, but it's usually just a smidge to balance out the acidic and peppery undertones. The way I see it, painting the patty red with it is where things turn south. 

Visit any bar with a self-proclaimed "pub burger," and chances are high it'll feature the following — some type of artisanal bun, grilled mushrooms, and a blanket of Swiss cheese melted to a translucent sheen. This seems to be the combo eateries have decided on for "fancy," not-like-other-burger hamburgers. While I get why adding mushrooms is a thing, I've never found it totally appetizing. The earthy aromas from sauteed 'shrooms overpowers the profile. Most burger joints also slice them into huge chunks and cook them to rubber, so they're hard to ignore. They get squished between the bun, so you have to grip onto the edges for dear life, assuming you don't want them to spill out the edges. 

For what it's worth, I'm not completely turned off by mushrooms — I don't pick mushrooms off of my pizza (assuming they're minced down to smaller bits), and I'll tolerate them in a spaghetti sauce. However, I don't go out of my way to ask for them directly; I can live without the umami morsels should a restaurant leave them out of the equation altogether. On a burger, it's as if somebody grabbed a side dish and proceeded to dump the contents, paying no mind to balance or a measuring scale. 

This entry applies to raw alliums broadly speaking. I put them on this list because they overpower everything they touch. The acidity is strong, and I've noticed they tread a fine line between tingly and downright burning — especially red onions. With condiments like mustard in the mix, you play a dangerous game with the pungent scents — I always regret not having Altoids on hand after eating one of these bad boys because the after-breath is borderline dastardly. 

On the other hand, there are customizations that can calm down the pungent after-effects. I love grilled onions, and I think they're a better alternative — they take the cake for a savory addition that's not too stinky. Searing the onions in a cast-iron pan is ideal to really honing in on the smoky notes that are, personally, sublime on a patty. Plus, all that time caramelizing in the oil shrinks the onions down to a size that's manageable. Maybe the skinny pieces are okay when cold, but the gigantic rings that feel like you peeled them directly off? It tastes extremely "vegetal" and sticks out from the rest of the burger fixings like a sore thumb. Toppings should enhance — not detract — hence why raw onions made the cut. 

Another "filler" burger topping I can do without is leafy lettuce. Although Romaine is quite vibrant and looks pretty, fanned out of the bun like a little green bouquet, it suffers a similar fate to tomatoes. They get soggy when it should be cooling and slightly crisp throughout, which never fails to kill the experience bite-by-bite. My teeth might pull out the entire leaf in one fell swoop. Sometimes, I forget it's even there until the wilted clump sloughs out and I'm forced to awkwardly reconstruct the burger back to the way it was. When I've felt pressured to eat more vegetables in a given day and leave the Romaine on against my better judgement, my compost bin has never been fuller. 

I'm probably giving the impression that chilled veggies don't belong anywhere near a burger, but let me tell you, this just isn't the case. I'm a happy camper when there's iceberg lettuce on top, despite the fact that it's a little deficient in the vitamins department. They offer a hefty crunch to counter the softer elements — (toasting your Ball Park White Burger Buns doesn't always stop your fixings from leaking in), and I've noticed the crisper variety doesn't trap in the vapors as easily. This helps the leaflets stay fresher. 

Our idea of common burger toppings has expanded greatly over the past decades. I assumed eggs were a new-fangled concept born out of the Millennial-era burger bar, but it's actually been a thing since the late 1800s. Contrary to my own lived experience, folks have been frying or poaching the protein long before the "Royal Red Robin" burger jolted our sensibilities — a burger, but gourmet? Who knew? 

Whether they're lacy, crispy, or explosively runny, eggs just feel out of place to me. They're quite rich on their own — for real, burgers do not need more fat. The greasiness of the patties, the melted cheese — there's just so much competition already. With the sunny-side style, it makes a mess I'd rather not bother sopping up if I can help it. I'm of the mind that fast food should be simple; frying another protein to slap on top only complicates things. 

In terms of zhuzhing up a cheeseburger or sandwich, brunch-inspired tweaks are definitely not going anywhere. By now the combination's proven itself to be a long-lasting phenomenon, so give me a breakfast sandwich instead. I'd prefer to go whole hog with bacon and a buttery biscuit than have it intrude in my smash burger. 

You might be asking yourself, "What does this writer like on a burger?" In fact quite a few things, and a tangy cheese raises the deliciousness by a wide margin.  When you have quality beef and a plush bun, the creamy dairy strikes the third much-needed component. Still, it has to be the right kind to achieve a good melt. Age-old in the burger world is the debate between cheddar and American, and I'll be frank — I haven't had great experiences with cheddar despite contrary results with, say, a macaroni and cheese. 

To put it simply, a cheeseburger has to ooze to properly earn my respect. Now a slice of the processed stuff, that garners superior oozing. Cheddar technically softens down, but it's cursed with a chalky finish that perseveres — even when steaming the beef to quickly render perfectly melted cheese. American, on the flip-side, actually manages to emulsify pretty well, and clings to the patty. Cheddar might have a sharper aroma, but I'm less interested in that aspect when it comes to my cheeseburgers, even preferring the milder taste in American. It's still "cheesy," but it allows salty and zesty garnishes I do like — think bread and butter pickles — to shine. These are reasons you'll never see Bobby Flay put cheddar on his burger, either, so I know I'm not alone. 

To anybody who knows me IRL, this last topping might come as a shocking revelation. I wish I liked guacamole — or plain avocado — spread between a burger. Lord knows the green dip in a party-size bowl hates to see me coming with tortilla chips in hand. In this context, though, something always seems to feel ... amiss. The flavor is almost too mild, the texture too creamy. Any zesty or piquant qualities go out the window and pivots straight into bland-land the minute it's dabbed onto a bun, and it never tastes as delicious as I expect it to taste. I'm always tempted to try the Bacon Avocado burger whenever I hit up Shake Shack, and frankly, I think it's this issue that stops me short of settling on the up-charge. 

Nobody can deny that the buttery flesh is excellent for other purposes — mushing the goop onto a slice of bread for a bangin' avocado toast? Sign me up. Unlike with an open-face sandwich, burgers are naturally at a disadvantage with all that steam from the grill. An overripe avocado turns what could be a splendid beef patty into a soggy disaster. Regardless of your go-to hamburger style, structural integrity is important. Considering how it's praised as a great addition to plant-based burgers, it's a shame the sloppiness makes it a "blah" extra.