The Lebanese Burger Mafia: The meaty saga and surprising drama behind Alberta's cult-favourite burger

Cutaways is a personal essay series where filmmakers tell the story of how their film was made. This Hot Docs 2023 edition by Omar Mouallem focuses on his film The Lebanese Burger Mafia, which takes a bite into the complex history of the Burger Baron chain.

When I told my parents about my plan to make a documentary about our family restaurant, they were surprised and confused. Why would anyone want to watch a movie about Burger Baron, a fast-food chain that exists almost exclusively in small-town Alberta?

Their reaction confirmed what I'd already suspected: that even the Barons themselves had no clue that there's an epic story behind this humble burger shack.

Didn't they think it was curious that they were able to run a brand-name restaurant for almost two decades without ever paying franchise fees to a corporation? Or that every location had varied menus, logos, and even names — evident in my dad's arbitrary decision to tack "Pizza & Steak" to the signage? Had they never stopped to wonder why virtually every owner was, like them, a Lebanese immigrant roped into the business through a process of chain migration?

Truth be told, they had little time to think about this puzzle while running the family business from 1987 to 2003 in High Prairie, Alberta. Those years were defined by long, hectic work hours and little recreation as they laboured to support a dozen people between two countries, which they did by catering to the palates of townsfolk. The prevailing theory was simple: if customers ate it at high enough volumes, we served it. Fried chicken, stir-fry, pasta, French onion soup, veal cutlets ... basically anything but Lebanese food.

Once the restaurant had accomplished its goal of creating security for their children, my parents quickly left the restaurant behind for a well-deserved early retirement in Edmonton — the only city in Alberta to hold on to this local institution, with four Burger Barons. You'll find the province's other 22 locations in rural communities like High Prairie. Just a few years after my parents were out of the business, another Lebanese immigrant moved to town, started a restaurant, and named it — what else? — Burger Baron.

There is a single curious location in Kelowna, B.C., which is not Lebanese-owned; it seems to operate like a properly franchised brand that claims to hold the original recipes and some trademark rights that the other existing owners — many of them my relatives — have presumably violated. (The B.C. restaurant recently posted a statement about my film, The Lebanese Burger Mafia, calling it "fake news.")

This is just a taste of the meaty drama that's underlined Burger Baron's convoluted history — a saga rife with imposter founders, sibling rivalries, an improbable connection to Lebanon's civil war, a would-be American fast-food tycoon named McDonnell (yes, seriously), and at least three summits organized in an attempt to unify that rogue chain, all of which went swiftly off the rails. 

While my parents were quick to forget about Burger Baron, I've made it my obsession. But even I needed some distance for the heart to grow fonder.

Growing up in the family business, I resented the restaurant's many demands on our weekends and free time. Sure, it came with many perks (nothing will win over friends like the ability to order pizza to any address, for free, when you have the munchies), but it could also feel like a burden when my parents missed my drama performances or sent me to out-of-town baseball games with other players' parents.

It wasn't until I moved to Edmonton myself after college that I began to appreciate our place in a local institution that means so much to people out west. People here light up at the very mention of it — especially those who've migrated from rural Alberta, who still can't shake their cravings for the famous Burger Baron mushroom burger, an oddity comprising little more than a beef patty smothered in mushrooms and mushroom soup. (Yes, soup — Campbell's cream of mushroom, to be exact, but mixed with something special.)

I was surprised to find a cult following in the form of tattoos, a scene in the raucous comedy Fubar 2, and an infamous parody Twitter account @Burger_Baron, known for trolling corporate fast-food chains. To them, Burger Baron is the anti-chain alternative — a little rebellious, even if it's a hot mess.

In 2013, I wrote an investigative article for the now-defunct magazine Swerve, titled "Will the Real Burger Baron Please Stand Up?" My article delved into how a group of unrelated Lebanese people came to dominate the company and explored the story of the OG baron, who unwittingly gave dozens of immigrant families — including mine — a chance at a better life. To my surprise, the article went viral, and it became the story for which I'll forever be known. 

But even after finding the original Baron, there was more to learn about how this chain went rogue and found its way to families like mine. In 2021, I approached the long-running CBC program Absolutely Canadian with an idea for a 45-minute film called The Last Baron, which aired later that year. But still the story felt incomplete.

So my collaborators at Back Road Productions and I launched a successful IndieGoGo crowdfunder to expand it into a feature film. The result premieres at Hot Docs on May 3.

The Lebanese Burger Mafia is a celebration of Arab culture. Ultimately, I want to leave audiences with a newfound appreciation of the overlooked cultural contributions of racialized Canadians. This is something lost on so many of us — including my parents, and, until very recently, even myself.

The Lebanese Burger Mafia screens at Hot Docs 2023 on Wednesday, May 3 and Friday, May 5.
This essay is part of CBC Arts's coverage of the 2023 Hot Docs Festival.