The Quarter-pounder with cheese

Sure, history books tell of the Tartar’s fondness for raw meat and how sailors from Germany loved to order Hamburg Style Steak upon their arrival in the New World. The real question is: Who created America’s first all-beef patty, ancestral prototype of today’s Quarter Pounder, Big Mac, and Whopper?

Pinpointing the origination of the hamburger to one particular person has proven more difficult to substantiate than the introduction of buttered toast. From localities across the nation, a roster of colorful characters have all staked their claim to the honor, forever obscuring the faint lines of fast-food lineage.

Popular food folklore—peppered with a light sprinkling of facts—often gives the top billing to “Hamburger” Charlie Nagreen, an inventive resident of Seymour, Wisconsin. Seems it all started somewhere around 1885, when fifteen-year-old Charlie began peddling his chopped beef to the throng of hungry visitors attending the Outgamie County Fair.

Worried about soiling their hands with grease, a few genteel patrons asked if Nagreen could supply a more sanitary way of toting the snack meat. Responding with a sizzling stroke of genius, he slapped one of his cooked patties between two slices of bread—and presto! The first truly portable combination of ground beef and bread became a reality.

Five states to the South, the burger-loving denizens of Athens, Texas, have posted a plaque promoting their own history. For them, the original father of the blessed burger has been and always will be legendary lunch counter owner, operator, cook, and chief bottle washer Uncle “Fletch” Davis.

By the latter part of the 1890s, old Dave gained a notable reputation locally for his fried patties of steer. He decorated his first hand-held version with a healthy dose of hot mustard, crowned it with a slice of Bermuda onion, and nestled the stackup between dual slabs of home-made bread. Voila, pardner—the hamburger was born!

The state of Ohio throws its own entry onto the griddle with the exploits of Akronite Frank Menches. Seems that in 1892, he tapped into the mother load of grease at the Summit County Fair with his own creation. When a pork delivery failed to materialize one busy morning, the Menches brothers were left lacking the main ingredient for their famous sausage sandwiches. Snorting their noses at the adversity, they substituted ground beef. With zeal, circular hunks were flavored, formed, and fired. In the spirit of saving the day in the last minute (all too prevalent in food folklore), Frank Menches began slapping patties between the two halves of buns and proceeded to canonize himself as the “inventor” of the hamburger.

Even more colorful is the “just in the nick of time” story handed down to descendants of Louis Lassen, once famed burgermeister of Louis’ Lunch in New Haven, Connecticut. According to Ken Lassen, current owner and grandson of the founder, an unidentified man came waltzing in at the turn of the century and requested a “quick sandwich.” Ever ready to please, his grandfather mashed a handful of sliced meat trimmings into a single patty, cooked it in a vertical broiler, and slipped it in between—you guessed it—two slices of bread!

Is there really one birthplace of the hamburger? No one will ever know for certain. In all probability, the hamburger sandwich invented itself—created simultaneously by a melting pot of individuals who happened to tune into the universal consciousness of human inventiveness, imagination, and hunger.

Hamburgers made their debut on the food scene as irregular lumps of chopped beef, hand shaped according to the improvisational jazz of lunch counter short order. During the early years, long before the cookie-cutter aesthetics of the Big Mac came into vogue, concerns over circular uniformity and ingredients were minimal.

When fry by the seat of your pants legends Charlie Nagreen and Frank Menches formed ground round for the griddle, personal artistry insured that every burger was a unique one. Irregularly molded perimeters of meat—with one piece more or less hanging out at one side or the other—didn’t affect taste. At the time, it was all part of their appeal.

Redeemed of their dubious reputation by the mid-1930s, the individuality of America’s beef patties slowly waned. Suddenly, the proprietors of roadside food businesses followed the preparatory parameters of the White Castle outlets. Mixing in just the right amount of fat became a major concern, the quality of meat of utmost importance. Approved by the public, the unvarying look of the “assembly line became the credo for hamburger standardization.

Aiding this quest for a perfect burger blob, manufacturers of restaurant equipment soon introduced a useful arsenal of kitchen gadgetry. The Sanitary Hamburger Press Company marketed a hand-operated device capable of producing meat cakes possessing identical specifications. With the speed and accuracy of three hyperactive butchers, eleven precise “patties of meat could now be extracted from just one pound of grind.

For even the most addle-minded burgermeister, creating an exacting succession of identical “hamburger sandwiches was now second nature. Anybody could do it: a minced batch of meat was loaded into one end and a crank was turned. Extruded wheels of beef, 3 1/2 inches in diameter by 1/4 inch thick plopped out from its bottom—untouched by human hands! The age of burger boredom had officially arrived.

Fortunately, the visual aspects of the hamburger were re-energized when restauranteur Bob Wian created his famous double-decker creation in 1937. By simply adding a center slice of bun, what had fast become a mundane marriage of beef and bread was elevated to a new level. In a perfect example of art imitating life—or in this case food mimicking architecture—multiple stories of beef, lettuce, cheese, relish, and sesame seed bun resulted in what would become the motoring crowd’s ultimate Dagwood.

Reincarnated as a fast-food representation of the streamlined designs typical of Simon’s, Herbert’s, Carpenter’s, and a long list of structures being erected to serve customers within their chariots, the once disreputable hamburger attained an aura all its own. All grown up and dressed to the hilt, it was a “Big Boy now—a hand-held monument to American ingenuity and culinary pluck.

By the 1950s, hundreds of millions of hamburgers were being sold each year. Coming as no surprise, the popularity of hot dogs, barbecue, grilled cheese, chili con carne, steak sandwiches, and even the chipped beef platter fell quickly to a position at the bottom of the menu. The culture born of the motorcar finally had a food it could hold in one hand and still eat while driving the strip.

Portable, palatable packages perfectly suited for eating-on-the-go, hamburger sandwiches are now solidly established for all forms of bench-seat snacking. To this day, they continue to sizzle as the quintessential staple of the American road.

• Big Country Burger® image courtesy of the Country Kitchen http://www.countrykitchenlathrop.com/lunch_menu.html

Today, the remnants of a once booming mineral water business can still be seen in the town of Mineral Wells, Texas. Originally built as a seven-story luxury resort, the Crazy Hotel is now a retirement home; the Milling Sanitarium a VFW hall, and the towering Baker Hotel—once the playground of screen stars, crooners, and oilmen—sits empty, a silent reminder of the times when the healing waters flowed.

The Baker Hotel, Mineral Wells

When James Lynch arrived on this site in 1877, there was little indication that this area would one day become a magnet for visitors. Although the valley was beautiful and the soil looked productive, well digging wouldn’t release water from the earth. Stuck with eighty acres, the Lynch clan was forced to haul up water from the Brazos river. After three hard years of toting, a traveling well-driller arrived in town and struck a deal to sink a hole. But to everyone’s chagrin, the dig unearthed a foul smelling liquid!

Necessity forced the family to overcome their aversion to the water and one by one they drank. After feeling no ill effects, they deemed it safe. Weeks later, something strange happened: the rheumatism suffered by Mrs. Lynch had vanished! After word of the cure spread, throngs of health-seekers arrived at the farm. When the hundreds turned to thousands, Lynch drilled more wells and then built a town.

Eventually, the stampede caught the attention of speculators, including a colorful character known as “Uncle Billy Wiggins. He purchased his own parcel of land and proceeded to cash in on the medicinal waters. According to town lore, a woman who was convalescing at the local sanitarium spent her days under the shade trees surrounding the well, sipping its effluent nectar. Resident juveniles nicknamed her the “crazy woman and after she left town cured of mental distress, the curative spring assumed the “Crazy Well name. Wiggins took advantage of the incident and added a pavilion and bottling plant.

In 1907, Sidney Webb purchased the Crazy Water Company from Wiggins, along with the four other wells. He went on to erect the town’s first luxury hotel, appointing it with modern bathrooms, elevators, telephones, and convenient access to the ever-popular mineral water drinking pavilion.

Inside the pavilion stood an elaborate bar that boasted four different strengths of Crazy Water. After filling up with drink, visitors could take their excercise on the “Fat Man’s Reducer. This early version of the Stairmaster consisted of 1,000 wooden steps that wound up East Mountain. From a vantage point below, locals made a sport of spotting novices: The poor souls who dared ascend the stairs after over-indulging in Crazy Water often turned an about-face to beat a hasty retreat to the nearest toilet!

Tragedy struck in 1925 when the hotel and entire downtown block was snuffed out by fire. One year later, Dallas businessmen Carr and Hal Collins stepped in to resurrect the Crazy and spent a million dollars to restore it. Ironically, the seven-story beauty they constructed prompted the locals to take aim at out-of-town investors. Determined to wrestle back control of their water rights, local citizens formed a committee to clear the way for an even more elaborate structure. Aided by reputable hotel magnate T. B. Baker, the new Baker Hotel would boast fourteen stories and four-hundred rooms!

Suddenly, the competition for tourists became an all-out war. To counter their lavish competitor, the proprietors of the Crazy Hotel installed a giant “Welcome to Mineral Wells, Home of Crazy sign at each traffic access to town. On the rooftop, a gargantuan electric billboard was installed that flashed the Crazy name far and wide. Inebriated by the battle, many of the local shop owners incorporated the word into their names. By the the end of the twenties, a plethora of “Crazy businesses appeared, including the Crazy Laundry, Crazy Drugstore, Crazy Theatre, Crazy Drugstore, and Crazy Beauty Shop!

Crazy Sign, Mineral Wells, Texas

After the stock market crash, Carr embarked on a campaign to market the snowy white powder that remained after Crazy “water evaporated. Healing packets filled with these Crazy Water Crystals could be easily shipped everywhere and were convenient. Hal Collins began extolling the crystals’ virtues on “One Man’s Opinion, a live radio show broadcast from the Crazy Hotel. A wry mix of humor, country-wisdom, music, and product testimonials, the show stirred up sales of three-million dollars a year!

Unfortunately, principals at the Food and Drug Administration were listening in too. Suddenly, all unwarranted health claims had to be removed from radio spots and packaging. With extreme prejudice, the Collins brothers complied, removing the bromide that claimed the crystalline powder was useful in the treatment of “rheumatism, functional stomach diseases, cystitis, diabetes, and Bright’s disease.

One year later, Crazy Water Crystals made a surprise appearance at Chicago’s Century of Progress Exposition. Hal Collins was in attendance and was drawn to a prominent display entitled the “Chamber of Horrors. Here, all of the medicinal cures that resulted in blindness, hair loss, and even death were on display. To his surprise, a green-and-white box of Crazy Water Crystals was neatly tucked in among the profane! To make matters worse, photographs showed the Mineral Wells hotel and bottling plant!

Collins was aghast at what he saw and immediately had the Crazy Water Crystals removed from the exhibit. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. Sometime later, the company was forced to add a warning label of precautionary advice that read: “Not to be used when abdominal pain (stomach-ache, cramps, colic), nausea, vomiting, or other symptoms of appendicitis are present. Continual use of any laxative may develop a systemic dependence on same. Crazy Water was on its way out.

Despite the controversy that surfaced over the crystals efficacy, Collins never wavered in his loyalty. When he sold off the hotel and mineral water rights in 1947, he reserved a large cache of the crystals for himself. Every day for the next thirty-three years, he religiously consumed his daily dose. He passed away at the respectable age of eighty-seven, a valid example of the healthful benefits of Crazy Water.

Nevertheless, his final testimony went unrecognized. By the fifties, the heyday of healing waters in America—and Texas—had concluded. Most of the grand temples that were erected to celebrate the curative powers of mineral water had closed their doors and ceased operating. By 1958, the animated electric sign that once welcomed the throngs of visitors to Mineral Wells and the home of Crazy Water was torn down. Sold for scrap, it spent the last of its days among the rubble of a Dallas junkyard.

In 1937, Robert Wian created his signature two-story cheeseburger at a five-stool lunch counter in Glendale, California and along with it—gave birth to a new roadside icon. At the time, six-year-old Richard Woodruff was a regular customer there, always on the make for free food. Occasionally, Wian let him sweep the floor in exchange for a burger snack. Charmed by the lad’s droopy overalls, pudgy physique, and limitless appetite for grilled patties of ground beef, he decided that his new multi-level sandwich should be called the “Big Boy.

Later, a local cartoonist sketched a rendition of the hungry urchin on a napkin and before the decade was done, the toddler with tousled hair, red and white checkerboard overalls and big belly was a trademark for hamburgers, adorning advertising signs, wrappers, and even the front facade of Bob’s Pantry.

Spurred on by the memorable images, news of Bob Wian’s delectable “double-deck cheeseburger spread and by the 1950s, he was franchising the tasty Big Boy sandwich and its endearing trademark to restaurateurs in six states (McDonald’s modeled their own Big Mac after the Big Boy burger). Within a time span of twenty years, the portly kid was greeting hungry customers nationwide!

By that time, he was a larger-than-life statue sculpted of painted fiberglass—holding a deluxe platter of burgers and Fries high in the sky for all passing by to see. More adorable than the Burger King, Wendy, or even Ronald McDonald, his burger-lovin’ smile and friendly demeanor entreated motorists to drive in and chow down. Despite an obvious weight problem, he liked food and wasn’t ashamed to display his culinary passions in public.

In spite of this quiet success, the Big Boy’s best years as an outdoor burger salesman were somewhat short-lived. After Wian passed away, stewardship of the chunky chap was assumed by what else: a corporation. As hard as it was for loyal customers to believe, the bean-counters in charge were contemplating his dismissal! After an unfavorable response from the public brought them to their senses, the ousting of the over sized mascot was put to a vote. Should the Big Boy stay or should he go? The answer came back a resounding yes: Americans liked the little butterball and wanted him to remain as company mascot and doorman.

Nevertheless, some in the radical fringe weren’t happy with the decision. The controversy came to a head in 1994 when bandits pilfered a 300 pound, six-foot high Big Boy statue from a Toledo, Ohio restaurant. Showing little respect for the edifice, they dismembered it with a hacksaw and dumped the pieces at Big Boy outlets in the surrounding area. Notes that were attached to the ragged fragments declared “Big Boy is Dead.

After a short investigation, detectives apprehended eight college boys and two underage youths and charged the entire gang with criminal mischief. As part of their punishment, the mutilators were forced to repay the $3,000 required to replace the fast food icon. Why did they steal the defenseless Big Boy and degrade it with such wild abandon? “We were bored, retorted eighteen-year-old “Bobnapper Tom Martinez.

And the saga continued: A short while later, California artist Manfred Bernhard was relieved of his duties as the talent behind the popular Adventures of Big Boy comic book (he’s been drawing the chubby character for thirty-eight years). Craig Yoe of Yoe! Studios has been contracted by the restaurant chain to pen a newer, more streamlined version of the burger boy and make him look like someone who has his fast food cravings under control. Shoveling down piles of burgers will be a definite no-no.

According to Tony Michaels, Vice President of Big Boy marketing, it’s the “kids that have been asking for a more athletic looking Big Boy! So, to placate the demand for a more spindly representative, the Big Boy will receive a long-overdue cholesterol check and a tummy-tuck. Although high morals will still be his guide, Bob’s revamped lifestyle will be completely updated for the nineties. Along with the slimmer midriff and freshly cleansed arteries, he will acquire his very own personal computer and cellular phone!

Die-hard double-deck cheeseburger fans can only guess what the Big Boy—or should I say “Trim Boy will be toting next. A Tofu sandwich slathered with a generous slice of melted goat cheese? Soyburgers topped off with a fresh heap of sprouts? Seaweed Panini sandwiches on gluten-free bread? As the business of American roadside food moves into the 21st Century, we can only shake our heads and wonder what time and changing tastes have in store for the hapless Big Boy.

America’s first ice cream soda fizzed to life in October of 1874. At the time, Robert Green was working as a soda fountain concessionaire at the Franklin Institute’s exhibit in Philadelphia. Serving drinks from a three-foot square dispenser, he ran out of cream for a popular beverage. Plopping a large dollop of ice cream into a flagon of flavored seltzer, he created the ice cream soda.

After sneaking a tentative sip, Green was wowed: the resulting blend of soda, syrup, and frozen cream was delightful! Without hesitation, the innocent libation was added to the menu, and by the end of the exhibition, customers showed approval by cracking their money purse. Green was taking in over $600 dollars a day in ice cream soda sales alone!

As more and more customers sampled the creamy texture of the new drink, word of the frosty frappé spread among the locals–then to surrounding states. The phenomenon spread quickly and soon, ice cream sodas were slurped in fountains from New York to California.

After two decades of unbridled consumption, a placated populace began to recognize Green’s handiwork as “the national beverage. As the soda addiction took root, Pious Mid-Western clergymen were quick to observe that the lascivious consumption was becoming uncontrollable. Not only were some Americans practicing gluttony during the week–they were now neglecting the Sabbath day of worship! The hedonistic act of sipping (what was soon referred to as) “the immoral soda became a pleasurable substitute.

It wasn’t long before pulpits became platforms for heated sermons. Men of the cloth rallied against the loathsome drink and denounced the country’s twisted devotion to the dogma of the ice cream parlour. God-fearing congregations took heed of the warnings, and before long–a throng of righteous citizens initiated a campaign outlaw sales of the corrupt concoction.

During the 1890s, Evanston, Illinois became the first principality to enact laws against the “Sunday Soda Menace. Two Rivers, Wisconsin followed with their own legislation–and soon, the banning of Sunday ice cream sodas spread nationwide! Liberated Americans, who had finally discovered a legal substitute for alcohol, became the target of a new prohibition. To the disbelief of many, a simple mixture of carbonated water and ice cream entered illegal domain.

Incensed at the excommunication of one of the best products the confection business had, fountain proprietors began searching for the ice cream soda’s savior. Another “forbidden treat had to be found–one that would legally circumvent the Sunday blue laws.

The most believable account credits fountain owner Ed Berner of Twin Rivers with the unassuming creation of the new dessert. As the story goes, George Hallauer came in for a dish of ice cream and desired chocolate syrup be poured over it. Berner sampled it himself–liked it, and began to sell “ice cream with syrup for the same price as a regular dish.

After customers began demanding it, George Giffy was forced to sell the nickel a dish treat at his soda bar in nearby Manitowoc. Afraid he was losing money on the combination, he limited sales of “the Sunday to the seventh day.

When Giffy realized its profitability, he started promoting the “Soda-less Soda throughout the week. To disassociate the treat with Sunday only sales and to satisfy the vigilant clergy, the spelling was eventually altered. While the ice cream soda was not entirely forgotten, Americans now had … a new Sundae.

In 1872, Walter Scott inaugurated the East Coast region as the bastion of diners when he served a snack from a rolling “lunch wagon in Providence, Rhode Island. In the decades that followed, a raft of diner manufacturers appeared, adopting his tenets of portability and efficiency as the basis for construction.

Valentine Double Deluxe Brochure

Unfortunately, shipping these prefabricated restaurants wasn’t cheap. The cost of commercial trucking added a substantial amount of green to the total investment required to open a roadside greasy spoon. As a consequence, few of the great diner outfits that established a name for themselves in the New England states found an audience out West.

In 1938, that sad reality was changed for the better when Arthur Valentine turned his vision of building affordable and transportable diners into reality. He founded a company called Valentine Manufacturing, Inc. and over the next thirty-six years, kept himself busy by designing and producing a practical line of “portable steel sandwich shops.

Valentine based his manufacturing operations in Wichita, Kansas, far from the accepted epicenter of the diner world (a satellite sales office was maintained in West Hempstead, New York). This central geographic positioning proved to be a major advantage over competitors when it came to delivery. Having earned its reputation as the “Heart of America, Wichita offered equidistant access to surrounding states. With that in mind, the freight added to a diner’s final price could be kept to an affordable minimum.

Now, prefabricated diners could be delivered to all fifty states. And that’s exactly what happened: before the Valentine outfit ceased operations in 1974, the little factory that was located at 1020 South McComas Street cranked out a respectable 2,200 units. Many extant examples of the genre still remain—scattered along the two-lane backroads of America, on the outskirts of towns, and wherever one would least expect them.

Valentine Company Logo

That’s not surprising, since all of the Valentine units were built to last. A channel base of six-inch steel coupled with cross members made of four-inch steel provided the framework for heavy-gauge steel panels that were coated with rust-resistant zinc. Tempered Masonite covered with steel sheet—finished in a high grade synthetic enamel—comprised the interior walls. Even the floors were constructed of durable materials, fashioned from greaseproof asphalt tile or linoleum.

On the exterior, flying-buttress corners typified the entire line and made the diminutive Valentine buildings unique. An integral advertising pylon positioned front and center distinguished them from the competition. Adjacent to the customer entry, the angular sign sprouted at ground level and angled skyward until it swooped back to join with the roof. Bright colors were paired with contrasting horizontal stripes to further characterize the porcelain enamel exterior.

The Valentine Little Chef

Valentine’s most popular model was the ten-stool “Little Chef, a versatile unit with an inside counter and a walkup takeout window that featured three different floor plans (within a compact footprint of ten by twenty-five feet). More ambitious entrepreneurs could choose the larger “Double Deluxe, an expanded module outfitted with seven sit-down booths. Along with the standard stools provided, this model afforded comfortable seating for some thirty-six patrons.

In both configurations, the diners left the factory with all of the fixtures that were required to get up and running in the shortest time possible. The kitchen arrangement was engineered for efficient “assembly-line operation and was outfitted with stainless-steel shelves, sink, and counter tops. An externally vented fry station, a combination refrigerator/freezer, and an extremely petite toilet facility completed the well-planned package.

All an owner had to do was secure a site, fashion a quick foundation, and wait for delivery! As soon as the plumbing was connected, service could begin. If the location proved to be an unprofitable one, the entire diner could be loaded onto a small trailer and relocated to a busier spot somewhere down the road. Naturally, this concept became a major selling point for the Valentine Company.

Valentine Kings-X, Colorado, circa 1950s

Even so, elaborate marketing gimmicks weren’t needed to move product. Valentines were affordable. In the year 1961, the Little Chef model sold for just a little over nine-thousand dollars. To cover delivery and set-up, buyers were asked to pay eighty cents for each mile the box was transported. The company made it easy to get into the business, too: rather than outright purchase, principals were offered “package financing, a deal that only required a down-payment of one-third and offered a gradual payout over the next three years at a six-percent interest rate.

These serialized, or sequentially numbered diners came with a little metal lock box that was installed outside of the front door. Proprietors were instructed to place the first fifty cents of every day’s take into an small envelope and to drop it down into the slot. Without fail, a traveling representative from the Valentine Company came by at the end of every month to collect this “rent! Upon finding this pay box empty, many a diner was hastily closed down and pulled from its moorings—the whole kit and caboodle carted back to the factory in Kansas.

A very unfortunate minority discovered that this unwelcome procedure was the only real drawback to purchasing one of these portable and transportable diners on credit. In every other respect, the tiny hamburger, hot dog, sandwich, and ice cream stands that were so handily crafted by the Valentine Manufacturing company of Wichita were a sweetheart of a deal.

• Read more about Valentine Diners at the Kansas State Historical Society

“People in their cars are so lazy that they don’t want to get out of them to eat! The proclamation still rings as true today as it did when candy and tobacco mogul Jesse Granville Kirby first uttered the words in 1921. At the time, he was trying to interest Rueben Wright Jackson, a Dallas, Texas physician to invest in a new type of roadside restaurant, one based upon a revolutionary new format that would one day form the basis all “fast food stands.

Kirby’s idea was simple: patrons would drive up in their automobiles and make food requests from behind the wheel. Acting as an order taker, a young lad fielded requests for food directly through the windows of the customer’s cars. Before engines had a chance to cool down, hot food and cold drinks were delivered right back out to the curb, lickety-split. The best part of it all was that diners could consume their meals while still sitting in the front seat of their cars!

In the fall of 1921, Texas “Pig Stand Number One opened for business at the busy intersection of Highway 80 and Cockrell, in the Chalk Hill area of Dallas. Dine-in-your-car convenience had arrived, starring a new-fangled creation dubbed the “Pig Sandwich. Prepared with slices of tender roast pork loin, pickle relish and barbecue sauce, the hand-held motoring meal gained a loyal following among Cowtown commuters and Dallas drivers. Most Texas counties were dry in those days, and an ice-cold bottle of Dr Pepper (invented at a Waco drug store) provided the refreshing pick-me-up.

But the portable BBQ cuisine wasn’t the only draw at America’s first curb service café. The energetic waiters who worked the curb—or “carhops as someone coined the phrase—were a sight to behold. “They were all young boys, probably twelve to fifteen years old, recalls Richard Hailey, present-day heir to the Pig Stand throne and acting president of Pig Stands, Inc. “Hustle was the name of the game. As soon as they saw a Model T start to slow down and turn tires towards the curb, they’d race out to see who could jump up on the running board first while the car was still moving.

With a serving technique more akin to rodeo trick riding than waiting on cars, the legend of the Texas carhop grew. And so did the notoriety of the Pig Stand’s signature sandwich. “Give a little pig a chance and it will make a hog of itself, Kirby was known to say, and he was right: Driven beyond the Texas borders by one of the first franchising deals in the industry, the number of stands multiplied. Between 1921 and 1934, more than 100 outlets were serving up “America’s Motor Lunch in Alabama, Arkansas, California, Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi, New York, Oklahoma, and Texas.

Inspired by Kirby and Jackson’s triumph, restaurateurs in Fort Worth, Dallas, and Houston copied the alfresco format and cashed in on the ranks of hungry car lovers for themselves. There was business a-plenty. By the end of the 1920s, vehicle ownership had increased from six million to twenty-seven million motorcars, nationwide. From the Texas panhandle to the coastal plain, potential customers cruised the highways and byways, eyeing the roadsides for a fast and flavorful place to eat.

In 1938, Houston motorists discovered good food served fast after restaurant owner J.D. Sivil and his wife Louise opened their first curbside canteen. Before the first ‘burger hit the griddle, Louise demonstrated a real knack for running a roadside stand. First, she hired female “car-hostesses instead of male carhops. For twenty-five cents an hour (plus tips), they served the car crowd a revved up power menu that included fried chicken, sirloin steak and trout sandwiches. Next, she called her place a “drive-inn, because she thought “hamburger stand sounded too low class.

Sivil was equally discerning when hiring carhops. Well aware that it was pretty girls that attracted the drive-in trade, she selected girls from an exuberant crowd of applicants, eliminating all those who weren’t between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. But there was more to it than just age: To join the team, a prospective Sivils girl had to have a good figure and a “come hither personality! Applicants had to have brains, too–along with a high-school diploma and health card.

Only a lucky few were invited to join the Sivils drive-in spectacle. “Houston Drive-in Trade gets Girl Show with its Hamburgers is how a 1940 issue of Life magazine described it—and they weren’t exaggerating. Every night, it was the same revue. At shift change, loud music spilled from the loudspeakers as the entire crew of carhops filed in to end their day. Immediately thereafter, a new crew paraded out and assembled in a grand chorus line to wait for inspection. Sivils personally checked them over to make sure their form fitting satin uniforms were clean and that their cowboy boots were polished. Only then were they released to take the orders and serve the food.

But this one-of-a-kind drive-in setup was only a preview of coming attractions. Two years later, the Sivils proved that “everything is bigger and better in Texas, especially drive-ins. In 1940, they opened a second curb stand in the Oak Cliff suburb of Dallas, at the intersection of Westmoreland Avenue, West Davis Street and Fort Worth Avenue.

In the vernacular of the times, the Dallas location would be categorized as the “cat’s meow. It featured north and south curb service, three acres of parking and a small movie screen. A serving staff of 105 carhops and three motor-scooter riding cigarette girls tended up to 500 cars at one time! It was so big, that a “general manned the building tower to direct the carhops to new arrivals. “When customers pulled into their spot, a caller relayed their location over a P.A. system, explains Buna “Johnnie Van Hekken, former Sivils cashier. Sivils was the talk of the town; the drive-in was at its zenith.

Over the next half century, the drive-in restaurant charmed the public. In Texas towns both small and large, it provided a venue for young people to meet, eat, socialize … and show off their wheels. As the art of curb service seduced California, Michigan and many other midwestern states, drive-in operators duplicated the successful Sivils and Pig Stands formula, spinning off multiple variations on the theme. Imitators tried everything they could to grab the motorist’s attention—including hiring all blonde carhops, tall girls, installing air-conditioning tubes to cool your car … and even putting the gals on roller skates!

Flash forward more than fifty years and one can still see the influence that Sivils and Kirby had on the business of roadside food. To the good fortune of Texas motorists, a handful of Texas Pig Stands continue their porcine BBQ rituals in Beaumont, Houston, Lytle, San Antonio, and Seguin. “These days, diners can still get an oversized piece of Texas Toast, giant onion rings, a milkshake and a tasty Pig Sandwich, explains Richard Hailey. “The best part is that we still sell the very same Pig Sandwich, made the same way that is was made, so many years ago.

Sadly, the great Sivils locations are gone now, but Sonic—America’s only national drive-in chain—carries forth the customs with gusto. Today, it boasts over 850 locations in the Lone Star state with carhops that still deliver the food to cars the same way they did during the drive-in’s heyday. Although the running boards are history and the uniforms are more casual, you can still see them gliding between the cars on roller skates, delivering window trays stacked high with burgers, fries and Cokes. The personal service that only a carhop can give—smiling and treating the customer right—never goes out of style.

The proliferation of cookie-cutter, drive-thru burger joints hasn’t affected the mom and pop drive-ins either (according to Hailey, California Pig Stand No. 21 pioneered the “drive-thru window in 1931). With names like Bar-L, Bun ‘n’ Barrel, Chip’s, Fran’s, Frosty, Healthcamp, Jo Jo’s, Keller’s, Prince of Hamburgers, Snapka’s, Theo’s, Top Notch, Wagon Wheel, and yes—even Pig Stand, the Texas drive-ins we remember from the cruisin’ days of our youth continue to attract us with the buzz of glowing neon, sizzle of grilled beef and savory aroma of beer-battered onion rings.

The fact is Texans still love to eat in their cars. For drive-in aficionados, there’s nothing that compares with having breakfast, lunch or dinner while seated in their favorite dining room: the front seat of their car. Cool cars, great food and good times define the Texas roadside—birthplace of carhops, curb service and the Pig Sandwich.

During the holidays, it’s a great time to give thanks that we have technology like trains, planes, and automobiles—modern conveyances that are there for us when it is time to say goodbye to the relatives who have taken out time in their busy schedules to stay with us in our homes.

Parting is always such sweet sorrow. But as Benjamin Franklin wrote way back when in 1736 in Poor Richard’s Almanack, “Fish and visitors smell in three days.” Sometimes even sooner.

To make the exodus as quick and smooth as possible, be sure to check the flight departure times well ahead of schedule. Most important, get to the airport on time os no on will miss their flight! When your loved ones are dropped off at the gate and thier baggage deposited at the curb, you can rest assured that they will indeed will be leaving, safely on their way home.

Photo by: © Michael Karl Witzel, All Rights Reserved