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Authors: Patrick Wensink
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white lapel. “Anyhow, we’ve gotta get you out of this getup. You should be wearing pinstripes, Dean. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“You’d be surprised. But you know me.” Deshler smiles, the gap in his teeth forms a goalpost. “I like to make an honest living.”
“Oh, you got me,” he says, covering an imaginary gun blast to the chest. “See you tonight, buddy. It is Friday after all.” The man laughs and passes the keys to Dean.
Deshler slips behind the wheel and hollers, “Tonight it is.”
The accelerator needs only a tap to roar the engine. Dean can’t look at the RPMs, his mind is off so far. Deep in that mind, it’s like a streetlamp over a dark road. Warm peach light fills a space for the Cliff Drinker’s memory, but just out of reach. He’s pushed people past the light. It’s dark outside the lamp glow and it’s getting crowded. Whoever’s out there, they’re close, he can almost touch them, recognize them. But he can’t. It frustrates the hell out of Dean.
When the car is safely parked and Deshler is out of sight, he opens the glove box and searches through paperwork. “Thurman Lepsic,” he says, holding the car’s registration. “I bet I know who knows this guy.”
Deshler is too dazed to even pop in a CD for Mister Lepsic.
Napoleon has a strange twist in his lips when Deshler returns. “What did I just see, man?”
“Nothing, don’t sweat it.”
“That asshole talked to you for like an hour.” Napoleon gives his partner a prize fight jab. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know who Thurman Lepsic is either?”
That nasty pride builds a dam over his mouth and stops Dean from honesty. “He was just babbling about the gas pedal sticking and not to take it over fifteen. The usual bullshit, Napoleon. Lighten up. I’m sorry he was a prick.”
“He can say whatever he wants to me. That dude is like, second in command at Bust-A-Gut. Lepsic is right below Clifford Findlay. His tie tack is worth more than your life.”
“Then he should have tipped better.”
So right now, you’re probably saying something to the effect of: “Jeez, there is a lot of burger talk flying around. This book is one coldcut away from being a butcher shop menu.”
This is the point I’d say: “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Is this a little overkill?” You’d shrug and I’d feel kind of guilty.
So maybe it’s time you were brought up to speed about the Burger Wars, the Beef Club, the Winters Family, Globo-Goodness Inc. and Burger Town, USA.
Let’s start at the top. Last fiscal year, Bust-A-Gut’s three hundred and fifty worldwide domes had a stronger income than many small Asian nations. However, Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, with its six hundred and twenty Victorian mansions worldwide—including the recently opened Winters Antarctica —pulled in about as much money as a certain huge Asian nation we will not mention.
It wasn’t always this way, however. Hamburgers, in general, weren’t multi-national corporations. In the beginning, burger stands were regional and as unique as the cities themselves. Their buildings weren’t designed by focus groups and dropped out of assembly lines. You’d better believe the food wasn’t either.
Hamburgers, at one time, didn’t come deep-fried or even freeze dried . Hard to swallow, I know. You’ve gotta trust me here. Many years ago a hamburger was simply ground beef and a bun.
Naive days.
It’s wildly disputed who first chopped a cow into tiny bits, cooked those bits in a flat circle and slid it between bread. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. That guy’s not in this story.
The first serious hamburger restaurants in America opened during the 1920s and 1930s. The patties were tiny, quickly made and each cost about a nickel. Almost overnight, lunch counters across America sprung up producing similar sandwiches, known as sliders. Most popular were the White Tower stands in the Midwest. In a trend as infectious as measles, dozens of
“You’d be surprised. But you know me.” Deshler smiles, the gap in his teeth forms a goalpost. “I like to make an honest living.”
“Oh, you got me,” he says, covering an imaginary gun blast to the chest. “See you tonight, buddy. It is Friday after all.” The man laughs and passes the keys to Dean.
Deshler slips behind the wheel and hollers, “Tonight it is.”
The accelerator needs only a tap to roar the engine. Dean can’t look at the RPMs, his mind is off so far. Deep in that mind, it’s like a streetlamp over a dark road. Warm peach light fills a space for the Cliff Drinker’s memory, but just out of reach. He’s pushed people past the light. It’s dark outside the lamp glow and it’s getting crowded. Whoever’s out there, they’re close, he can almost touch them, recognize them. But he can’t. It frustrates the hell out of Dean.
When the car is safely parked and Deshler is out of sight, he opens the glove box and searches through paperwork. “Thurman Lepsic,” he says, holding the car’s registration. “I bet I know who knows this guy.”
Deshler is too dazed to even pop in a CD for Mister Lepsic.
Napoleon has a strange twist in his lips when Deshler returns. “What did I just see, man?”
“Nothing, don’t sweat it.”
“That asshole talked to you for like an hour.” Napoleon gives his partner a prize fight jab. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know who Thurman Lepsic is either?”
That nasty pride builds a dam over his mouth and stops Dean from honesty. “He was just babbling about the gas pedal sticking and not to take it over fifteen. The usual bullshit, Napoleon. Lighten up. I’m sorry he was a prick.”
“He can say whatever he wants to me. That dude is like, second in command at Bust-A-Gut. Lepsic is right below Clifford Findlay. His tie tack is worth more than your life.”
“Then he should have tipped better.”
So right now, you’re probably saying something to the effect of: “Jeez, there is a lot of burger talk flying around. This book is one coldcut away from being a butcher shop menu.”
This is the point I’d say: “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Is this a little overkill?” You’d shrug and I’d feel kind of guilty.
So maybe it’s time you were brought up to speed about the Burger Wars, the Beef Club, the Winters Family, Globo-Goodness Inc. and Burger Town, USA.
Let’s start at the top. Last fiscal year, Bust-A-Gut’s three hundred and fifty worldwide domes had a stronger income than many small Asian nations. However, Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, with its six hundred and twenty Victorian mansions worldwide—including the recently opened Winters Antarctica —pulled in about as much money as a certain huge Asian nation we will not mention.
It wasn’t always this way, however. Hamburgers, in general, weren’t multi-national corporations. In the beginning, burger stands were regional and as unique as the cities themselves. Their buildings weren’t designed by focus groups and dropped out of assembly lines. You’d better believe the food wasn’t either.
Hamburgers, at one time, didn’t come deep-fried or even freeze dried . Hard to swallow, I know. You’ve gotta trust me here. Many years ago a hamburger was simply ground beef and a bun.
Naive days.
It’s wildly disputed who first chopped a cow into tiny bits, cooked those bits in a flat circle and slid it between bread. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. That guy’s not in this story.
The first serious hamburger restaurants in America opened during the 1920s and 1930s. The patties were tiny, quickly made and each cost about a nickel. Almost overnight, lunch counters across America sprung up producing similar sandwiches, known as sliders. Most popular were the White Tower stands in the Midwest. In a trend as infectious as measles, dozens of
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