Read Online Broken Piano for President by Patrick Wensink - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Wensink
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other entrepreneurs sprouted copycat stands to cash in. Some memorable shacks included: White House, White Cabin, Super Tower, White Burger and the doomed Detroit establishments: White Boy and White Devil.
However, these businesses faded in a cloud of griddle steam during the 1940s and 1950s with the popularity of drive-ins and the malt shop. Gradually, what burger stands remained branched into thinly linked regional chains.
Even at this infant stage of meaty lust, America knew an itty-bitty burger didn’t satisfy. The Cold War was hot and it was un-American to fill your hunger with an armload of puny sliders. May as well grab a bowl of borscht on the side.
Much like American waistlines, burger sizes inflated during this time. In 1952, truckers, linebackers and hungry tummies near Dayton, OH nearly fainted when regional burger powerhouse Beef Boy introduced the Fat Boy. Two quarter pound patties shuffled between three pieces of bun and a pile of onions, pickles, ketchup and mustard. The young chef and owner, Harold Dobbs—barely old enough to shave—became the first superstar of fast food.
The Fat Boy’s popularity allowed the Beef Boy chain to ooze across borders to Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Pennsylvania and West Virginia. At his peak, the 1954 fiscal year, Dobbs—now lovingly called “Double Harry” by customers and peers alike—operated ninety-two restaurants, the largest chain in the country, and served nearly a million Fat Boys.
Parody proved to be Double Harry’s downfall. Much like White Tower a few decades before, Beef Boy’s competitors adopted the double hamburger ethic and the Boy -craze sizzled like raw meat over flames. Notable copycats included: Chunk Boy, Double Boy, Buff Boy, Man Boy, Boy Boy, Coy Boy, Nature Boy and Well-Mannered Boy.
Beef Boy was swallowed by this expanding sea of imitation Boys. Unable to adapt and properly expand the empire, Double Harry and his franchise filed for bankruptcy and closed shop on all restaurants during the winter of 1956.
Once a staple of the Dayton culinary scene, Double Harry quickly vanished and was soon rumored dead.
While Double Harry’s greasy presence fell into America’s drip pan, its favorite Almost-Hitler-Catcher and top Electric Toothbrush inventor was just firing up his stovetop.
There’s an envelope in the mail addressed to Deshler. He opens it and finds an Arbor Day card. He doesn’t know when Arbor Day is, but it doesn’t come at the start of winter, he knows that.
Missing: One Screwdriver. One Red Car. One Pint of Malinta’s Blood.
There is no return address. The postmark is from Deshler’s zip code. He throws the card away and spends the rest of the day trying to forget ever seeing it.
Okay, so back to the burger story. Sorry, I had to look over some notes.
A Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger publicist tells us its beefy empire was founded by Christopher Winters in 1955 with money saved from his various fortunes. Today, the company spreads a message of “Good old-fashioned American fun and values through ground beef.” This is reiterated by every restaurant being modeled after Winters’ green and gray Victorian mansion: a place Winters claimed was as happy and well-rounded as a sesame seed bun. All employees dress like nineteenth century bankers and bankers’ wives to truly illustrate the old-fashioned goodness of its product.
Prior to the first set of Victorian gables poking a hole in the skyline, most burger restaurants, including Beef Boy, didn’t have enough fuel in their engine to expand beyond a couple states. Thanks to Winters’ nationwide popularity and bottomless wealth, there was a neon-lined Victorian mansion in every American state, most of Canada and Guatemala by the time the 1960s rolled around. The company’s founder was never seen in public without his trademark outfit: A ketchup red suit with mustard yellow shirt and tie. He often said in interviews: “I’m so serious about hamburgers, I wear the colors on
However, these businesses faded in a cloud of griddle steam during the 1940s and 1950s with the popularity of drive-ins and the malt shop. Gradually, what burger stands remained branched into thinly linked regional chains.
Even at this infant stage of meaty lust, America knew an itty-bitty burger didn’t satisfy. The Cold War was hot and it was un-American to fill your hunger with an armload of puny sliders. May as well grab a bowl of borscht on the side.
Much like American waistlines, burger sizes inflated during this time. In 1952, truckers, linebackers and hungry tummies near Dayton, OH nearly fainted when regional burger powerhouse Beef Boy introduced the Fat Boy. Two quarter pound patties shuffled between three pieces of bun and a pile of onions, pickles, ketchup and mustard. The young chef and owner, Harold Dobbs—barely old enough to shave—became the first superstar of fast food.
The Fat Boy’s popularity allowed the Beef Boy chain to ooze across borders to Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Pennsylvania and West Virginia. At his peak, the 1954 fiscal year, Dobbs—now lovingly called “Double Harry” by customers and peers alike—operated ninety-two restaurants, the largest chain in the country, and served nearly a million Fat Boys.
Parody proved to be Double Harry’s downfall. Much like White Tower a few decades before, Beef Boy’s competitors adopted the double hamburger ethic and the Boy -craze sizzled like raw meat over flames. Notable copycats included: Chunk Boy, Double Boy, Buff Boy, Man Boy, Boy Boy, Coy Boy, Nature Boy and Well-Mannered Boy.
Beef Boy was swallowed by this expanding sea of imitation Boys. Unable to adapt and properly expand the empire, Double Harry and his franchise filed for bankruptcy and closed shop on all restaurants during the winter of 1956.
Once a staple of the Dayton culinary scene, Double Harry quickly vanished and was soon rumored dead.
While Double Harry’s greasy presence fell into America’s drip pan, its favorite Almost-Hitler-Catcher and top Electric Toothbrush inventor was just firing up his stovetop.
There’s an envelope in the mail addressed to Deshler. He opens it and finds an Arbor Day card. He doesn’t know when Arbor Day is, but it doesn’t come at the start of winter, he knows that.
Missing: One Screwdriver. One Red Car. One Pint of Malinta’s Blood.
There is no return address. The postmark is from Deshler’s zip code. He throws the card away and spends the rest of the day trying to forget ever seeing it.
Okay, so back to the burger story. Sorry, I had to look over some notes.
A Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger publicist tells us its beefy empire was founded by Christopher Winters in 1955 with money saved from his various fortunes. Today, the company spreads a message of “Good old-fashioned American fun and values through ground beef.” This is reiterated by every restaurant being modeled after Winters’ green and gray Victorian mansion: a place Winters claimed was as happy and well-rounded as a sesame seed bun. All employees dress like nineteenth century bankers and bankers’ wives to truly illustrate the old-fashioned goodness of its product.
Prior to the first set of Victorian gables poking a hole in the skyline, most burger restaurants, including Beef Boy, didn’t have enough fuel in their engine to expand beyond a couple states. Thanks to Winters’ nationwide popularity and bottomless wealth, there was a neon-lined Victorian mansion in every American state, most of Canada and Guatemala by the time the 1960s rolled around. The company’s founder was never seen in public without his trademark outfit: A ketchup red suit with mustard yellow shirt and tie. He often said in interviews: “I’m so serious about hamburgers, I wear the colors on
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