CNF- Food Review

Around a year ago, I went with my family to a barbecue. My uncle was at the grill; the delicious, smoky smell of meat emanating from his post. He flipped hot dogs and burgers gracefully, with blinding speed, and when the were done they flew into buns. I remember taking a bite of the savory cheeseburger; with ketchup, mustard, pickles, lettuce and tomato, it was the perfect blend of flavors.
This was not that burger.
As I stumbled up to the counter, I was greeted by the pleasing aroma of bacon. My expectations were heightened, and I ran up to the stove where the patties had been laid out. I took out a plate and put the ingredients onto the bun as usual, stopping to place a mound of bacon in between it all. I did not, however, realize that the patties and bacon had been overcooked, and were tough and charred. I simply carried on and went back to the computer with my dinner.
When I took the first bite of that burger, I didn't notice anything wrong with it. I just tasted a whole lot of bacon, and of course that was perfectly fine with me. But after a little while my chewing slowed down and a bit of a frown threw itself onto my face. The tough and overcooked meat was difficult to chew, and I could hardly taste the bacon. To top it all off, the buns were stale and dry, which couldn't be countered by all of the toppings. To be honest, I wouldn't mind any of this had the bacon been okay, but it was rock-hard and as tasteless as the plate it rested on. I checked the date; it was my sister's turn to cook dinner. I immediately facepalmed and carried on chewing, cursing my sister for being the only person alive who could ruin bacon.

Alternative Prompt (CNF)

What's in a name? I know nearly nothing about mine, and yet it holds plenty of stories within. My first name, John, came from my late uncle John. But my father never really talks about him, and I'm not sure how he died or who he was. Although mysteries are usually intriguing and make for good tales, I had never even heard of him until I was around ten years old and saw a picture of him. He was fifteen when it was taken, and he looked surprisingly like I do today. Strange how that type of thing works out. My last name, Binsch, comes from a much more complicated story, involving Italian and German battles. Both sides fought on a battlefield called 'Vinsch,' and eventually the Germans started to call it Binsch for some reason. Many Italians have the last name 'Vinsch,' considering the battle was considered a huge success on their part. However, it seems that my family is the only one left with the German slang of that minor scrap of history as our namesake. Convenient, really, but again not too descriptive. All I know much about is my middle name, Rudolf. This came from my grandfather Rudy, who died when I was almost two years old. He had fought in world war II alongside the nazis, but was in a small, secret organization against Hitler and his followers. It must have been a troubling time for him, disobeying the nazi commander while forced to fight in his army, but he powered through it all and lived to tell the tale. As a pilot, he had taken in several bombs to deploy, but he never actually used one; they were taken into the tiny, nameless organization and kept safely until the end of the war. Rudolf died of a heart attack when he was seventy-two years old, after dealing with lung cancer and several other ailments for twenty years. And I'm proud to know that my middle name comes from an honorable man like himself. History is what's in a name, and those tales (no matter how vague) should be kept close to one's heart for as long as the live.