Meshuggah Burger: A Memorable & Bold Collaboration at Slayer Burger [Food Review]

As I set out to write this review, I’m reminded of that familiar horror film trope: the eager journalist venturing innocently into an ordinary assignment, only to plunge unexpectedly into chaos. I realize it sounds dramatic, but this precisely describes my experience at Slayer Burger. The blame lies squarely on their latest devilish concoction: the Meshuggah Burger.

View of Slayer Burger from the street, photo by Lance Marwood

Stepping onto Toronto’s gritty east side, my past as a former Cabbagetown local floods back: years of shows, late-night meals, and urban misadventures. Slayer Burger commands the corner, marked unmistakably by an arresting mural of Slayer’s Jeff Hanneman mid-riff, splashed in a chaotic punk zine explosion of black, red, and orange. I grab my shots swiftly, appreciating the brand’s performative visual flair, though cynically suspecting it masks a mediocre culinary experience.

I’m about to be profoundly humbled.

View of Slayer Burger inside, photo by Lance Marwood

Inside, I’m greeted by Mac, Slayer Burger’s Queen Street East manager. Tall, inked, and initially stoic, his face quickly breaks into a sincere smile. When I mention my purpose, to taste-test the Meshuggah Burger, he briefly disappears, confirming my credentials. Mac’s professionalism hints at something different here; meticulous, yet refreshingly authentic.

My assumptions shift when Mac casually mentions, “We actually get all our burgers and buns from our commissary. Fresh every day.”

View of fresh delivery, photo by Lance Marwood

I pause, mid-note, eyebrows raised. As someone with a lengthy culinary past, I recognize the significance of this revelation. Commissary prep means absolute consistency, rigorous quality control, and expert-level logistical precision—a bold move post-pandemic. Yet, right before my eyes sits undeniable proof: a gleaming tray of freshly ground, marbled AAA beef patties.

Taking a swig from a bottle of Coke, my eyes instinctively drift to the grill. Watching the careful smash-and-scrape, the precise caramelization of beef edges, I realize I’m witnessing genuine craft. Meshuggah’s thunderous track “Combustion” roars overhead. If I’d written this scene for the screen, it would all feel a little too on-the-nose. As it happens, I’m merely reporting what I see. And I’m liking what I’m seeing.

Mac cooking the Meshuggah Burger, photo by Lance Marwood

The moment arrives. The burger sits wrapped pristinely in Slayer-branded liner, reassuringly secure. And large.

Unwrapping reveals a striking black charcoal bun, surprisingly plush, adorned regally with sesame and poppy seeds. I brace for the familiar let-down of frozen-and-thawed buns, but my fingers sink into its velvety softness—a revelation itself.

Meshuggah Burger & poutine served up, photo by Lance Marwood

Meshuggah Burger, photo by Lance Marwood

Nestled in this midnight cushion lies something even more provocative: two sizzling patties blanketed in molten Canadian cheddar, vibrant pickled onions offering a colourful juxtaposition of violent and magenta. Add to that the intriguing glisten of lingonberry jam paired boldly with dill mustard aioli, and I’m instantly locked in. The scent is an aromatic siren song, a visceral nostalgia of roadside burger stands mixed provocatively with gourmet indulgence.

Then comes the first bite. Immediately transformative, the lingonberry jam and pickled onions burst into a sharp, vivid counterpoint against the sumptuous meat and cheese. The Meshuggah Burger masters the alchemy of salt, fat, acid, and heat, imprinting an instant sensory memory. It’s not just delicious; it’s something I immediately know deep down I’ll crave.

Alongside the burger comes the poutine, a quintessentially Canadian indulgence reimagined. Wrinkle-cut fries, generously drenched in gravy and authentic cheese curds, hide a secret beneath: a velvety cheddar sauce, rich and compelling, reminiscent of something found at the best Philly cheesesteak joints. Each bite pushes me deeper into a decadent stupor.

Close-up of the poutine, photo by Lance Marwood

Initially hesitant, I finally give in. The brisket arrives, glistening, tucked between slices of fresh bread and generously slathered with Slayer sauce. The first bite hits with an intensity that stops my conversation mid-sentence. This brisket, marinated meticulously and smoked for twelve hours over two days, emerges tender yet robust, balanced between yielding softness and satisfying chew. The Slayer sauce, an aioli laced with complexity, brings more flavour in a spoonful than entire bottles of lesser condiments. Each bite drives home the realization that this is the best beef brisket sandwich I’ve ever had. I don’t say that lightly, and I don’t say that without serious gravitas: I’ve travelled the world and eaten a wide breadth of food. So it comes as a shock that I’m stating this, but I can’t tell anything but the truth.

Beef Brisket (heavy breathing not pictured), photo by Lance Marwood

As I say my goodbyes, that horror trope kicks in. Now, back at my desk, stomach rumbling, all I can think about is that meal at Slayer Burger. The Meshuggah Burger, memorable and bold, isn’t just a band collaboration or marketing gimmick. It’s an experience, one that I’m already regretting having made in the first place, but only because I won’t be able to make it again soon.