When, in Dhurandar, Hamza (Ranveer Singh) casually drops the line about his girlfriend Yalina (played by Sara Arjun) being free to marry a "burger boy", it plays more than just as a throwaway joke.
"Burger boy" is more than just slang for certain Pakistani men. The term carries layers of history, class politics, cultural anxiety, and decades of social commentary packed into just two words.
The Real Meaning Of Burger Boy
At its simplest, a "burger boy" in Pakistan refers to an urban, affluent young man who is seen as Westernised, English-speaking, and culturally removed from what is considered "local" or traditional Pakistani life.
He likely studied in elite schools and is comfortable in global pop culture, wears international brands, and navigates life with a certain ease that money and privilege provide. Think Imran Khan, but more on that later.
But the term is rarely neutral. While some wear it like a badge of honour, more often it is used satirically, even dismissively. A burger boy is perceived as soft, entitled, superficial, and disconnected from the struggles of the majority. Someone more comfortable discussing oat milk than power cuts, more fluent in Netflix references than local politics, and far more likely to Instagram a protest than physically attend one.
"Fully dressed with matching accessories even for 8 am classes at university, they always own the latest in fashion, cars and gadgets. Their 'parties' mimic nightclubs in foreign countries since the poor souls don't have any clubs here and have to recreate the experience on their own," a Pakistani media channel describes burger boy.
A Reddit thread from Pakistan explains what being a burger means. "Kids with a sheltered life, who are utterly out of touch with the reality of an average Pakistani, who has this crazy weird accent that's not even a proper accent, is a 'burger' to me. Or someone I need to piss off I'll call em a burger," the user said.
How would you define a burger
byu/Skeetwaterboy inpakistan
How Burgers Became A Class Marker
Long before "burger boy" became a punchline or a political label, the burger itself was a curiosity.
In late 1970s Pakistan, eating out usually meant roadside bun kebabs, chaat, nihari, or samosas grabbed between errands. Western fast food was not just rare, it was unfamiliar. So when Mr Burger opened its doors in Karachi in 1980 by Syed Ashfaq Raza, it did not arrive quietly.
Originally from Lucknow in pre-partition India, Musa Raza worked in the Middle East before moving to Karachi, where he dreamed of building a family business despite knowing no one there.
His nine sons later studied in the US and UK, but he encouraged them to return and start something together. Inspired by the popularity of McDonald's in Europe during the 1970s, his son Iqbal proposed bringing the franchise to Pakistan. When both McDonald's and Burger King rejected the idea, calling the country unready for burgers, the brothers took it as a challenge to prove them wrong.
The idea of minced meat shaped into a patty, sandwiched between soft buns, and served in a clean, air-conditioned space felt almost foreign. For many, it was intriguing. For others, it was suspicious.
Early reactions ranged from fascination to outright mockery.
"You won't believe it, but at that time, there was only one supplier in the country who made disposable cups, and it was selling them to the national airline only. They refused to sell the cups to us because they didn't think it was worthwhile and they didn't understand what we were trying to do," Musa Raza's son recalls in an interview with Al Jazeera.
But soon after the launch, curiosity turned into crowds. Mr Burger became a social event rather than just a place to eat. Families dressed up to visit. Teenagers treated it like a status outing. Going there was not about hunger as much as it was about being seen. The high-priced burgers alone made it inaccessible to most, instantly turning the burger into a symbol of economic distinction.
What really cemented its elite status was who started showing up. Politicians, businessmen, foreign-returned Pakistanis, and eventually prime ministers were seen dining there.
According to Al Jazeera, in the first 15 years of business, Nawaz Sharif, Pakistan's former prime minister, used to come for the chicken burgers, as did former President Asif Ali Zardari, who at the time was Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto's fiance.
Eating a burger meant you belonged to a certain social bracket.
Neighbourhoods mattered too. The joint's popularity among residents of Clifton and Defence (Pakistan's posh areas) reinforced the idea that burgers were the food of the well-off. For the rest of the city, the burger became shorthand for a lifestyle that felt distant and slightly unreal. People who could casually say, "Let's go for burgers," were immediately marked as privileged.
By the mid- to late 1980s, the reaction had shifted. What was once a novelty invited mockery.
Comedy played a crucial role in cementing the term. The late comedian Umer Shareef popularised it through his television comedy Burger Family, where wealthy, Westernised families were caricatured as culturally confused, English-spouting, and hilariously out of touch. The satire stuck.
What began as a joke turned into a social label. It was about accent, attitude, schooling, and social exposure, not food.
Note here that the label is gendered too. "Burger girl" exists in the same cultural space, used to describe young women who are seen as equally Westernised, privileged, and disconnected.
The Politics Of Being A Burger, Ft Imran Khan
Nowhere did the term gain more political weight than during Imran Khan's early political years. When the former cricketer entered politics with Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf, he was frequently dismissed by established politicians as a "baby boy" or a "burger boy", shorthand for someone too privileged and inexperienced to understand real politics.
His supporters, largely young, urban, educated Pakistanis, were labelled "burger bachchas". The implication was clear. These were laptop-carrying, social-media warriors, more comfortable tweeting than organising on the ground.
Sheikh Rasheed Ahmed, former Federal Minister for Interior of Pakistan, famously quipped before the 2013 elections that this "burger group" would join the chapati-and-salan folk, joking that they might need to carry laptops on their heads to protect them from the sun.
The mockery, however, missed something crucial. When these so-called burgers showed up to vote, they changed the political equation.
The 2013 elections saw the highest voter turnout in Pakistan's history. Thirteen million first-time voters participated, most of them young. PTI emerged as the second most powerful party, driven largely by this urban, educated base.
What was meant as an insult became an identity. PTI supporters embraced the label, turning it into slogans like "Kaptaan's Burger Army" and wearing it during polls.
The long, layered history of burgers in Pakistan is why Dhurandhar's casual "Burger boy" reference works so well. Because, sometimes, a burger is more than just a burger, especially in Pakistan.