You can't travel very far in America without bumping into a burger chain. They exist in dense urban cores, suburban strip malls and tiny towns. There are so many of them you'd think we had reached the saturation point, yet they multiply every year. With so many, they compete by creating a cacophony of brightly colored ads hoping to catch our distracted attention.

I've been doing my very best to avoid most of these places since I was a teenager. Wasn't it better to focus attention on smaller, family-owned operations? When challenged to find the best chain burgers, I felt both a sense of disgust and, honestly, curiosity. I mean, how bad can Burger King be? (Turns out, very.)

But I have to admit that times have changed for the better. It's now possible to get not just a good burger at a chain restaurant, but a great one. Sure, there's still an awful lot of questionable options out there, but they are being crowded out by places using fresh meat, soft buns and high-quality toppings.

We set out to rank all of Chicago's fast food burgers. To be included the chain restaurant had to have a national presence. That meant regional chains like In-N-Out (West Coast), Whataburger (South) and M Burger (Chicago) didn't make the cut. That left me with 18 diverse options, from fast food joints with dollar menus to trendy joints where the cheapest option tops $13.

Along the way, I learned a couple of important lessons.

Using fresh beef instead of frozen beef makes a huge difference. All the best burgers used fresh meat, and all the worst tossed frozen pucks onto the griddle or conveyor-belt grill.

Smashed burgers are the best fast food burgers. My top four picks featured beef smashed on a griddle. You might think this violent process squeezes out the juices, but if done immediately after the beef hits the griddle, that's not actually the case. Plus, you get beef with a stunning brown crust, which always, 100 percent of the time, tastes better than gray, flaccid meat.

Click a burger in the grid to see the full photo, price, scores and a review

I'm not sure burgers get much better than the kind you'll find at Smashburger. Sure, independently owned operators offer advantages like unique atmospheres and engaging personalities, which subtlety color your dining experience. But I doubt many places in America serve a burger with a more gloriously griddled surface as the patties here. Add to that a soft egg bun and a host of crunchy toppings, and you have a nearly flawless burger experience.

Culver's takes care of the details. Not only are the buns toasted, they are buttered first, resulting in an extra savory crunch with each bite. The toppings are also fresh and crisp, and the burgers are expertly smashed on the griddle. Even the service is top notch. And I didn't even mention the ultra-thick custards, which are kind of a required purchase.

We have Shake Shack to thank for the smashed burger renaissance, which started in a small hut in Madison Square Park in New York City in 2000. The immediate popularity slowly drove the public away from the feeding frenzy on oversized and underflavored burgers. Cooks place a ball of meat on the griddle, smash it down and then use what looks like a paint scraper to upend the beef from the griddle. This results in the beefiest patty I tasted all month. The meat is placed on the softest bun around — a Martin's potato roll — which is just one step away from the texture of a marshmallow. My only issue, and it's slight, is that there is barely any texture, not even a pickle slice to add some crunch. (You can ask for some, but they don't come standard.) Still, there's a reason this chain is expanding across the globe at such a furious pace.

The elder statesman of the smashed burger scene (the original opened in 1934) still dishes out one of the best. The small pucks of never-frozen beef are expertly whacked on the griddle with a large spatula, where they pick up a gloriously browned exterior and crunchy little edges. Unlike Shake Shack, Steak 'n Shake understands the importance of texture. The cut side of every bun is toasted until crunchy and golden, and the lengthy crisp pickle slices nicely cover every bite.

As you can plainly see, Umami Burger doesn't look much like any other chain restaurant burger, which is on purpose. Founder Adam Fleischman jettisoned the common burger toppings in favor of ones full of umami— the savory fifth taste. That explains why you get a Parmesan cheese crisp, meaty-tasting shiitake mushrooms, roasted tomatoes, caramelized onions, and a specially formulated Umami-branded ketchup. All of these combine to create a totally unique experience, one that strangely gets better the more you eat. I wish the beef itself was seasoned more aggressively, and the burger is rather expensive. But it's certainly a singular and rewarding experience.

This is the ultimate example of a bunch of very humble ingredients combining in a miraculous way to form a better whole. The buns steam on a bed of rehydrated onions, turning supple and soft. Sure, the beef is kind of dry, but the whole package somehow exudes beefiness. The only thing I like to add is a squirt of sweet ketchup. Perhaps my own nostalgia gets in the way, but I could have eaten half a dozen of these.

Red Robin is basically Burger King done right. All of the burger patties are chargrilled, but instead of scorched beyond recognition, the meat stays relatively juicy. The cooks make sure to position all of the elements on the burger carefully, leading to a straightforward, yet solidly made burger.

Don't feel embarrassed ordering this. The regular cheeseburger is actually a double, and it's an unholy mess. The proportions of the single work much better, though the meat does seem taste underseasoned and doesn't have a very good sear.

It's hard to argue with this. Wendy's uses fresh beef, not frozen patties, so when the meat hits the griddle, it actually gets a decent sear. The cooks make sure to properly season each patty. Add to that a nice soft bun and fresh toppings, and you have a burger I wouldn't necessarily search for, but wouldn't be angry to eat. Sure, there was way too much mayonnaise on my particular offering, and this particular example looks like a pile of old rumpled clothes, but that could have been an isolated service error.

At first glance, this expanding chain from Washington, D.C., looks like a supersized Shake Shack burger. Good Stuff uses the same ultra-soft Martin's potato roll, and tops the standard cheeseburger with top quality lettuce, crisp pickles and a beautifully red tomato slice. Though larger, the beef tastes drier and lacks Shake Shack's incredible sear. With better beef, this could have been a contender.

This Florida chain is sort of like Shake Shack if you squint. But look closer, and key components are off. The bun isn't quite soft enough. The toppings are lackluster. Fortunately, the beef actually tastes great, dripping with juice. Too bad the bottom bun gets soaked, turning to mush after a few minutes.

The burger has a pleasant chargrilled aroma, and the soft golden brown bun is a great touch. So it's too bad that the bun dwarfs the ⅓-pound beef patty. Unlike every other restaurant here, Fuddrucker's has a huge condiment bar, where you dress your own burger with dozens of different options. I can't speak for all the ingredients, but the pickles were nice and crunchy.

I have no kind words for the crumbly bun, but the patties themselves are well-seasoned and get a genuinely good sear on the griddle. Plus, instead of the usual fast food carelessness, this Big Buford arrived looking smartly dressed, and it stayed together until the very end. All in all, this is a satisfying fast food option.

Two patties fixes most of the problems inherent in McDonald's underwhelming single cheeseburger. I quite like the mix of onion, pickle, and ketchup playing off the salty cheese and beef. Still, your teeth meet almost no resistance for each bite. Still, this is probably the best option if you're stuck at the golden arches.

Though labeled a cheeseburger, know you'll actually get a double. There's no doubting that this is one juicy burger. But it's also an absolute mess. By my second bite, the bun fell apart, the two patties crumbled into pieces and the toppings scattered. Those are forgivable sins if the meat held up its end, but the sear on the patties is weak, leaving the beef tasting muted and underseasoned.

The way the special sauce plays off the salty cheese, tangy pickles and fragrant onions is undeniable. But the same thing that distinguishes the offering from every other burger — the middle bun — ultimately dooms it. Each bite consists mostly of bread. It would be one thing if the middle bun soaked in juices from the patty above it, but with such dry meat, that never happens. Plus, while the commercials make the Big Mac look strong and proud, it's a precarious structure, willing to tumble if you look at it incorrectly.

Unlike the miniscule patty on the single cheeseburger, the quarter pounder patty actually tastes juicy. But the texture seems off, like the beef is too tightly compacted. I blame the use of frozen burger patties.

Thanks to a glistening golden brown bun, this burger certainly looks like a fast food contender. But the toppings lack flavor, and, worst of all, the meat has a spongy texture without any recognizable beef flavor.

Unlike the Big Mac, there's nothing inherently distinctive about the Whopper. Perhaps, at its inception it stood as the biggest burger in the land, but now the Whopper just looks like a very average option with the usual crew of toppings. Those fresh vegetables actually help balance out the aggressive grilled flavor of the meat, but for a so-called big burger, it's awfully dry. Plus, the original bizarrely lacks cheese.

The flaws are painfully obvious. The bun dwarfs the meat. The slice of American cheese is never melted. The pickles always bunch toward the middle. Where's the meat again? But there's no discounting the careful engineering involved. Perhaps the combination of the acidic pickle, fragrant onion and tangy ketchup with the extra sweet bun triggered some powerful childhood nostalgia buried deep inside me, but I momentarily found myself enjoying this. Then I realized I couldn't taste the beef — at all.

Something about this package feels off. The beef does have a charred aroma, but it reminds me less of an idyllic backyard grill, and more of a gas fire raging out of control. Plus, the beef itself is crumbly and lacks juice. And unlike McDonald's cheeseburger, all these disappointing desperate elements fail to even pretend to play together.

This absurd creation (well over 900 calories) is an avalanche of grease with nothing to balance it out. Would a pickle be too much to ask for? Instead you get two, ¼-pound patties on a bun with a handful of squalid looking bacon, two slices of cheese, ketchup and more mayo than any burger should hold. Actually made me feel sick.

The bizarrely bland cheeseburger proves this drive-in has its attention focused elsewhere. Perhaps the oversized bun deserves the most scorn, though the pallid-looking patty deserves to be covered up with something. Stick to the Slushes.

As poorly made as a fast food burger can be. Nothing about this careless creation holds up to scrutiny. The gray and limpid patty was dry and flavorless. The bun was stale. The tomato was sliced thicker than the burger. As for the rest of the toppings, they looked like they were hurled in the burger's general direction in a fit of rage.

Nick Kindelsperger is a Chicago Tribune food critic and has written about food and dining for the Chicago Tribune since 2016. You can often find him around the city eating a questionable number of meals for research purposes. Previously, he's written for Epicurious, Serious Eats, Grub Street, New York Magazine, and the Washington Post.