When you walk into the lobby of Le Parker Meridien, stroll past reception and turn left. You’ll look like you know what you’re doing. I didn’t. My information wasn’t as good as yours, you see. I stumbled into the tall, bright foyer, looked up at the high ceiling, nearly walked into a full-length mirror, ended up in the bathroom or the washroom or whatever, and then, reluctantly, went over to the concierge.

“I hear there’s a burger bar in here,” I said. “Oh, really?” she replied. “Who told you that?”

A few people, actually. I had been asking around for the best burger joint in Manhattan, a place where real New Yorkers ate, somewhere outsiders, tourists and the bridge-and-tunnel crowd wouldn’t know about. Incongruously, Le Parker Meridien, a well-to-do midtown hotel near Tiffany and Carnegie Hall, kept cropping up. It’s all a bit posh and polite and refined and clean-shaven – everything a good burger isn’t. This couldn’t be right.

To check, I asked a friend, a New Yorker, and her face fell. It seemed she was not happy with my information – not, as I’d feared, because it wasn’t true or she didn’t like it, but because she knew I’d like it and then tell you. And that would make it even harder to get a table when she wanted one.

“Well, they were right,” said the concierge, and pointed me down an unremarkable dark corridor that I’d walked straight past a moment earlier. A small, kitsch neon sign in the shape of a burger glowed above the black curtain at the end, like a distress flare sent up by the 1950s.

Behind the drape, things got even more David Lynch: hidden away in the middle of this slightly soulless establishment was The Burger Joint, a fabricated yet nonetheless quaint slice of Americana. It was tiny – seven booths, five tables and a bench, the kitchen no bigger than a boxroom – and it was packed. The walls were covered in film posters; a television nobody was watching was showing a game of baseball.

As I queued, I looked at the menu, written in marker pen on the side of a ripped-up cardboard box and stuck on the wall. “Step 1: Hamburger or cheeseburger? Step 2: How d’ya want it cooked? Step 3: What d’ya want on it? Lettuce, tomato, onion, gherkin, mayo or the works? Be ready or else you can go to the end of the line. Cash only.”

Milk shakes were available after 1.30pm for $4.50; there’s only one beer on tap – a dark Sam Adams served in pints for about the same, or pitchers for $17 – otherwise it’s a soda or lemonade (both at $1.75), or water. And for dessert, $2 brownies sat under a Perspex cover. As you can see, you don’t come here for the choice. But you do come here for burgers.

When I got to the front, I gave my name and got it shouted back at me when my patty came off the grill, handed over wrapped in waxy paper with my chips in a paper bag. My cheeseburger with the works cost me $7 (a burger is 50 cents cheaper). The plain bun was sesame-seed free and almost fluffy, the tomato fresh and crunchy, the chips thicker, just, than french fries, but far from chunky. But the meat was the star, striped on the grill but still pink in the middle, tender without being crumbly, rich with flavour and oozing juice that soaked into the paper and ran down my fingers.

As I sat and ate, I watched the business suits, the high heels and handbags, the college kids with rucksacks and headphones, the construction workers with stained T-shirts and steel toecaps. Over the white noise of conversation, and the Ramones and Fats Domino on the stereo, you heard patrons give their instructions – burger, rare, no onions; cheeseburger, medium, the works – and the chef reply in kind, barking out names (Lucy; Tay; Jon; Patrice). The only thing that linked the clientele was that they were here. They knew what I knew.

After a few moments’ deliberation over whether I could get away with ordering another burger under the heading “further research”, I opted for one of those brownies. It was nutty and splendid and almost too rich, but not quite. Ask for one cooked at the edge of the tray, as the outside crust gives it extra bite. It was delicious, just like the ones the chef used to make at the summer camp where I worked in Tennessee, years ago. It gave me the same sense of being on the cusp of America – as close as I could get to being a native in the space of a meal. With its Formica and fake wood walls, The Burger Joint might not be authentic – but it sure tastes like the real thing.

The Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien, 118 West 57th Street (00 1 212 245 5000). Open 11am-11.30pm (midnight Friday and Saturday)

Travel brief: airlines flying to New York include Zoom (0870 240 0055, www.flyzoom.com), which has fares from £199; British Airways (0870 950 8950, www.ba.com); and Virgin Atlantic (0870 380 2007, www.virgin-atlantic.com). The Parker Meridien (00 1 212-245 5000, www.parkermeridien.com) has doubles from £211. The nearby Hudson Hotel (554 6000, www.hudsonhotel.com ) has doubles from £156.

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