A few decades ago, back when I was living flamboyantly in Chicago, I was introduced to a food extravaganza that could have defrocked any home-grown priest in my small country of Belize. Newly arrived and having never had a real hamburger — and by real, I mean a whopper from The House of the great whopper  — I was already sold on the American staple. To my defense, let me tell you that I ate with gusto, actually licked my fingers, again thinking of my upbringing of waste-not.