There's only one correct way to make tête de veau, to make a supremes sauce, to make mashed potatoes. But there are infinite variations on the cheeseburger, and each of them is valid and true in its own way. For example, I'm not a big fan of the thin-and-crispy style of burger-making as practiced at Jim's, but legions of Denverites swear by it, and I understand their loyalty.
The kitchen makes big, thin patties of loose-packed meat, then cooks them to order on the flat grill until they're well-done and crispy 'round the edges. Fashioned this way, the burger acts almost like lunchmeat, spreading out into a layer that can both support and interact with a wide variety of toppings; it's then served on a big, squishy bun totally inadequate for maintaining the structural integrity of anything larger than a small single, the cheapskate burger that costs 89 cents. The burger comes loaded unless you ask for it otherwise, the meat becoming just another stratum of flavor and texture, thereby elevating the importance of the interplay of toppings and folding everything -- bun, burger, gooey cheese, mustard and ketchup, bright onion, sweet tomato, lettuce and vinegar brine of pickles -- into a single, over-arching burger gestalt. Are the cooks thinking in such lofty terms as they stand there, slapping together my double meat and cheese, hold the tommies? I doubt it, but that's fine. They're busy, and a burger -- so long as it is approached with the respect it's due -- can generally take care of itself. Do anything you like to it, and its inherent goodness is unaffected.
Unless, of course, you add shredded lettuce, as Jim's does. Shredded lettuce is never a good idea. The heat turns it stringy, wilts it almost immediately, and the grease turns it slimy. Give me a whole leaf any day or, better yet, just forget it entirely.
Jim's kitchen also does decent, thin-cut fries that always need a little extra salt, battered onion rings, milkshakes far too thin and milky for my taste -- the standards -- as well as hot dogs, sandwiches and a lot of extraneous stuff that I've never heard anyone order. And because all true burger joints seem to require some bizarre, totally discordant, quick-serve, fried-from-frozen impulse item that's advertised on greasy table-tents shoved off next to the salt and pepper shakers (at Griff's, it's jalapeño-cheese-stuffed tater tots), Jim's also offers deep-fried, breaded macaroni-and-cheese wedges. On the table-tent, there's a picture of some wide-eyed kid eating one -- pupils blown out like the thing was stuffed with espresso beans and crack. Although I'm a daring eater, having no problem with calves' brains or squid testicles or what-have-you, I've never been tempted by the mac-n-cheez wedges. Grilled field mice? Bring 'em on. But I'm pretty sure the fried macaroni would kill me stone dead.