

The 18th green at PopStroke The Colony. Dusk coming in low, the sky gone the color of a Creamsicle somebody forgot on a dashboard. I had a forty-footer with two breaks, uphill into the grain of the evening. I read it from behind the ball, then from below the hole, the way the pros do. I stroked it clean.
It lipped out. Of course it did.
And then, across the patio, I caught it on the evening air: beef hitting a flat-top griddle at a temperature usually reserved for forging horseshoes.
The best smash burger I have ever eaten. Two 4oz patties, smashed thin until the edges go to lace. American cheese, the honest kind, melted into the cracks like it signed a lease there. A slick of bacon jam, sweet and smoky and a little bit dangerous. Crisp lettuce. A slice of tomato. Burger sauce, a recipe I asked about and was politely refused. All of it held together by a pillowy potato bun that knows its job and does it without complaint.
On the side, house-made chips, still warm. A pickle spear standing at attention like a caddie.
I tapped in for bogey. I didn't mind. Some victories aren't measured in strokes.
Customer reviews
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Surf instructors are out of this world. Kind and make people want to join in! My little brother came to town this week and Ryan showed him some sauce baby, he was absolutely shredding. Food was heat the mahi tacos are so buss, sliders are fire, and the Kona big wave, let me just say “Heat in the cold of winter” that’s how she makes me feel.
Dave H.
Dallas @ The Colony

