The '50s are gone. The Boomers are easing into retirement like a warm bath, with the nostalgic re-resurgence of the diner culture of their youth, even the use of '50s pop-rock songs as ad jingles. The idea of a reborn Happy Days-style diner, replete with jukebox and poodle skirts, is itself a quaint anachronism of the '80s (remember Lime Rickey's?), another decade rapidly wearing out its welcome. But we haven't outgrown our retro taste for simple greasy food.

In the no man's land that is Queen East before it reaches the Beaches, Saeed and Mustafa Yusuf are aiming at that vestige of ol'-timeyness with their succinctly named The Burger Shoppe. A restaurant so simple has two choices: offer an innovative twist or do it better than anyone else. Unfortunately The Burger Shoppe does neither.

On the night we visit, they're out of veggie burgers. That's one quarter of the menu. The vegetarian among us folds her arms as in, “Where have you led us now Moses?” She was dragged out to Queen and Broadview for a patty of millet, carrots, onions, garlic and “lots of spices.” Now, short of manna, she'll have to fill herself with milkshakes and fries.

The milkshakes ($4.85) have the right sweetness and viscosity. Our frontal veins throb as we suck through anorexic soda straws. No attempt, however, is made to disguise the scooping straight out of the Chapman's ice cream box, despite rumours on the internet that they use locally made gourmet stuff.

A basket of sticky poutine ($4.95) wins back our attention. Crispy fry ends jut out of the salty morass of rich, condensed gravy, though traditionalists might want the firm curds to have been inserted during the cooking stage for interspersed gloopyness. Onion rings ($2.95) taste like they've been shovelled into the deep fryer straight from the McCain's box. The large hoops of hardened breading contain something like onion inside but there is not enough of it to be sure. Burger Shoppe folks: whip up some flour, baking soda and carbonated water, dip some onions in it and drop them in the fryer. They're not blinis. You've got time.

An organic burger from the Healthy Butcher ($6.95) offers redemption. It's tight, juicy and, at this price, as good an argument as any for Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's theory that we ought to eat better meat, less often. Who wouldn't choose to pay a dollar more not to eat poison? (I'm not calling somatotropin and antibiotic grain poison, I just don't like the sound of “pituitary gigantism and antibiotic resistance” on a bun with pickles and ketchup.)

A chicken burger, while moist, is so packed with pepper it's almost indistinguishable from the basic burger, which is excellent if a little skimpy (5 ounces). The cheeseburger's slice of aged cheddar barely registers even without any other garnishes on the bun.

A restaurant with only four main dishes (burger, organic burger, veggie burger, chicken burger) and a few supplementary items should really not run out of things. We're told that there are no veggie burgers, mini-burgers (it's just a small burger dude – just MacGyver something together) or vanilla shakes.

Anyone who's seen that crappy Eminem movie knows that when you get the chance to rock the mic, you've got to crush it. At 8:20pm on a Wednesday, with the place half-full, the open sign is flipped over, the deep fryer drained and the grill turned off. And then the air conditioner stops. The sudden absence of quiet humming is picked up by several heads at the table as The Burger Shoppe's way of offering us a nice box of scram.

The droopy-eyed teenager in short-sleeve chef jacket begins covering his inserts with plastic wrap. As we finish eating, a customer knocking on the door is turned away. Then another. I ask the owner why they are closing so early. He confides in me, “In the summer restaurant business is slow.” Out front, as our group chats over Tic Tacs, two more parties rap on The Burger Shoppe's window. They make the universal “I'm hungry” gesture of belly rubbing but they too are turned away into the yet-to-be-redeveloped Queen East landscape. Let's hope they run straight to Citizen for some of Rodney Bowers' Dr. Pepper ribs or to Dangerous Dan's for his Coronary burger – his Colossal Colon Clogger is too ridiculous to endorse.