We were skeptical, walking into the NYC transplant all ready to loudly uphold the virtue of our beloved In-N-Out and never come back. And then we took a bite … and then another, of ShackBurger, crinkle-cut fries, Chicago dog and frozen custard concrete—with a craft beer on the side. When it was all gone we cried, because we didn’t have room for more and they wouldn’t let us stay there until the joint opened back up the next day. New York-New York, 725-222-6730.