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.

Tydol Flying A Gasoline Uniform Patch, Circa 1940s

During World War II, Allen P. Bell was transferred to the Air Base in Kingman, Arizona to work his tour of duty as an aircraft mechanic. On his 21st birthday he stepped off the train, walked down old Route 66 a ways, and observed the desolation. “What is this God forsaken place? he asked himself. He made his mind up right then and there that once discharged from the Air Corps., he wouldn’t return. Operating a service station—much less living there—was the farthest thought from his mind.

Nevertheless, the two-lane twist of concrete designated Highway 66 had other plans in store. When the war finally ended, Bell entered the job market and discovered that aircraft mechanics weren’t in very high demand. Stuck in the desert without prospects, he decided to try his luck at automotive repair.

Unfortunately, the life of a grease monkey proved to be unfulfilling. To make matters worse, the pay was meager. About that time, the good fortune of the highway smiled his way and presented itself in the form of an idea: “Why not manage a filling station? After all, gasoline rationing was finally over and Americans were taking to road in record numbers. Automobiles would always need fuel and there were was plenty of room for stations attendants that knew how to treat customers right.

At the same time, Bell figured he could take in a little mechanical work on the side, choosing only jobs he wanted. “I was never into overhauls and all that nuts and bolts stuff, explains Bell. A few years of tearing down and reassembling aircraft engines with his arms up to the elbows deep in grease cured him of that. The standard filling station routine of repairing flat tires, replacing broken fan belts, and tuning the occasional carburetor would be sufficient.

Under the Tutelage of Whiting Brothers

The year was 1947 when Al Bell got hooked up with a busy Whiting Brothers station down in the desert town of McConnico, right along the alignment of the old road. It pumped out a fair amount of gallons, but not enough for the enterprising Bell. At the end of nine months, he mastered the basics of managing a station and decided to move on. He was soon responsible for running a Mobil station on the Walapai Indian Reservation in Peach Springs (in a leasing arrangement).

Behind the station, a couple of roadside tourist cabins provided Bell with a little extra income from travelers, and later—trouble. One day, his young son Bob Boze was playing where he wasn’t supposed to and got his hand tangled in the maid’s washing machine wringer! Without proper emergency medical facilities in town, Bell loaded him in the truck and raced all the way to Kingman to the nearest doctor. Luckily, his arm was saved.

Later, the accident caused Bell to reconsider his remote location—and career—at the Flying Red Horse outpost. Concluding that safety was more important than pumping petroleum, he decided it would be best for the family to move back to Kingman. But, homesick for what he thought he was missing in the east (and recalling the youthful proclamation he made only a few short years ago) he announced to the family that he was moving the entire clan back to Swea City, Iowa. There, he had a lucrative offer to operate a brand new Phillips 66 station.

Bell Returns to the Desert

Far from the road that first sustained him, it took more than half a decade for Bell to realize that his fortunes didn’t lie in the heartland. Six years of icy winters and plowing of snow took their toll. What’s more, his wife Lilly had lost two babies in the interim—coloring the surroundings with unhappy memories. With her ongoing problems with asthma, Al decided it was time to hit the road again. They would pack up and head west, back to the desert cauldron that Bob Bell swore he would never return to.

Flying A Gasoline Advertisement, Circa 1960s

And so, like so many others seeking a new life at the end of America’s two-lane rainbow, they packed their vehicle full with all of their belongings and pointed the car west. Arizona was their final destination and would be their new home … this time for good. Al Bell didn’t know it at the time, but a prominent refueling assignment in Kingman—right along Highway 66—was waiting for his return.

Once settled in Arizona, the highway called Bell to action with a combination of circumstances. It all started to fall into place when he was visiting a friend that ran the flashy Flying A station up on 14th Street. Bell was complimenting his fellow station man on the great setup when the proprietor jokingly asked if he wanted to buy it. For a second, Bell imagined himself pumping fuel under the glow of that fantastic sign out front and the hoardes of customers he could win over with his own brand of service. For the time being, he suppressed his excitement and shrugged off the inquiry.

A short while later, a company representative from the Tidewater Oil Company began to telephone Bell at home, each call bringing with it a progressively better offer to take over the station. When the deal finally got so good that he couldn’t refuse, he agreed. With his experience and personal insight on how to run a refueling business, he was primed and ready to take the reigns of super service station with one goal in mind: to someday, pull in over $100 per day from the rush of motorists plying the two-lane.

The Las Vegas of Gas Stations

With that monstrous marquee, it would be easy. A double-sided, two-hundred and nine bulb show stopping extravaganza featuring a swooping arrow lit with sequential flashers—there wasn’t another sign like it along the entire length of the Will Rogers Highway. Mounted below its dual, electrified arrows, blazing tubes of neon branded the ultimate selling point motorist’s brain: “Jugs Iced Free! In an era when Thermadore air coolers served as automotive air conditioning and the words “cooled by refrigeration sent chills up and down one’s spine, it was the perfect slogan to attract travelers inebriated by Arizona’s desert heat.

Luckily, part of the arrangement Bell made with the refiner was the cover the electric bill. It was a good deal, since the three story signpost sucked up more than $150 worth of juice in one month! From Memorial Day until the end of September, it shone without rest. Driving in from the outskirts of Kingman on a hot summer’s night—it appeared like a roadside apparition, one that belonged more on the Las Vegas strip than in the quiet community of Hilltop. Motorists were attracted to the Flying A Service Station as if Al Bell had installed a huge electromagnet and hidden it inside one of his garage bays. Vacationers, snowbirds, outlaws, truck drivers, and those in search of a new life out west were drawn in and stopped to get gas. During the summer, hundreds of cars streamed in for service, many coasting on fumes.

To the motorist, it was like entering the promised land of petroleum: Their were eight lanes and four service islands—each equipped with three gasoline dispensers. When a car pulled in, four young men dressed in white cotton overalls with their names embroidered on the breast pocket attacked the cars simultaneously. The first boy in bow tie asked the rehearsed line “Can I fill it with 100 plus Octane? The second lad proceeded to wash all of the windows—the front windows, the side windows, the back windows—everything made of glass! Meanwhile, the third service attendant rushed to check the air pressure in all of the tires while a fourth pump jockey began checking the oil level under the hood.

California Bound and Jugs Iced Free

As the height of the American service ethic and gas station style was being played out on the concrete, Bell’s son, Bob (fully recovered from his wringer accident and an active little leaguer) sprinted to the drivers side window and asked the burning question that was on everyone’s mind: “Got any jugs you want iced? A heavy-duty York ice machine cranked out the precious cubes at the rate of 450 pounds a day, providing steady work for the younger Bell and a means to save money from tips. He was only nine years old when he began toting the frozen crystals to the customers and worked the Flying A every season until he was out of high school.

Bob Boze Bell recalls those busy days with fondness: “What was amazing about working at the station was that everybody in the 50’s and 60’s was bound for California. Many thought it was the promised land out there—you could see it in their eyes. They would come out of their cars—and it would be July in Kingman with a temperature of 103 degrees outside—and they’d ask how far it was to California! I’d say about 60 miles. They’d say: Oh, thank God! Well, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that 60 miles away was California, all right—Needles, California, the hottest place on the planet Earth, next to Death Valley, which was their next stop after Needles! Sometimes, I wished I could be there with them just to see the look on their faces when they crossed the border and realized it was 122 degrees outside!

Working for tips from the customers he replenished with ice, Bob spent most of his childhood at the Flying A. Curiously enough, the pocket change paled in comparison to the goodies he picked up by other means. It seemed that every other day another customer would ask if he could trade gas for merchandise. “We’re out of money and we gotta’ make it to California they all said. Of course, their cars were packed with personal belongings—items that suddenly became less important than a gallon of gas.

Bob’s dad was sympathetic to their plight and always found something he could use in exchange for a tankful. And more often than not, the traded items ended up in the hands of an appreciative ice-boy! The great highway brought in more stuff than could ever be imagined, including a set of World War II binoculars, cameras, a Bowie knife, drums, fishing poles … everything a boy loved. Ironically, the trunks of the passing automobiles became an extension of the junior Bell’s toy box.

Real Adventures in Pumping Gasoline

Still, the collection of merchandise was just a minor benefit of working the station. There was nothing to compare with the real-life adventures that were played out daily at the Flying A. Who needed television?

One afternoon, an actual police chase passed right out front. Bob was pumping gas at the time when he heard sirens approaching. He stood there with the filler nozzle in hand, watching the pursuit in progress. The cop in the cruiser, Floyd Cisney, was his little league coach and a part-time driver in the Kingman demolition derby! Cisney pulled up alongside the speeding car, passed it, and turned—forcing both vehicles from the road. “That part of Route 66 was a bottle-neck for stolen cars, explains Bell. “Cisney held the record for nabbing stolen autos with 5,000 arrests to his credit … God—it was exciting!

During a more serious brush with a criminal, Bob’s best friend lost his dad in a shoot-out. Sheriff Tarr was killed—shot in the stomach—at his inspection station on Highway 93, north of town. As Bell tells it, “There were some crazy kids who stole a car and were pulled over. Tarr asked them to empty their trunk and a gun was produced. He told them to give it up but they shot first. It was written up in Life magazine as a wild west shoot-out! During those three months of summer, the area around the Flying A was a wild place ! The roadside escapades had such an influence on Bob Bell that after his first year of work, he bought a book on the true west with his saved tip money. He became hooked on the excitement, and decided to make the subject his life’s work as an artist.

Hollywood Comes to Call

Even during slow times something interesting was always going on around the station. On a cold winter’s day in ‘61, Bob and his dad were sitting next door in the Tideway Cafe when a couple of curious characters pulled up in the lot. When the duo got out of their car, it was obvious to everyone that they were wearing beanies. They began acting strange, gazing around and holding up their hands to make a small frame—just like Hollywood directors do when they were scouting a good location for a movie. “I know they’re from Hollywood piped the younger Bell. “I just know it!

Al went outside to get the scoop and returned, informing everyone that they loved the layout of the station, the pumps, and most of al—the “Jugs Iced Free sign. They wanted to put the Flying A Service Station in pictures! A short while later, a flick starring Cornell Wilde called Edge of Eternity debuted in theaters. According to Bell, “It was a real B movie about a death at the Grand Canyon, a real time capsule of the Kingman area The station scene was shown on screen for a total of thirty seconds, showcasing the flashing ice sign, the station, and the Tideway Cafe.

Harry Tindle ran the attached Tideway in cooperation with the Bells. It was a classic diner without tables, just fourteen stools around a counter where people would sit and eat. “We worked together explains Bell. “Somebody would come in and ask where they could get a good sandwich and I would say right next door. Somebody would ask Harry where they could get a tire fixed and he would say right next door! You gotta’ work together … we ran a real good business there.

But it was more than just hype. Both operations provided the kind of service customers liked. “I’ll never forget the breakfast brags the elder Bell. “Boy … he had a grill right in front where you could sit and watch him cook. He was sharp! Bacon and eggs, hash browns, toast, coffee—all for one buck! With all the motels in the area and people always in a hurry, business was brisk—enough to afford Kindle a pink Cadillac and power boat! They were often parked nearby, potent reminders of an American dream come true.

Reaching the Goal of High Volume

In 1959, Al Bell grabbed the brass ring for himself when he reached his earlier goal of earning $100 per day. Unfortunately, the success proved to be a double-edged sword. When Tidewater Oil took notice of his substantial receipts, an inevitable ultimatum came from corporate headquarters: they wanted to re negotiate a part of his lease in an attempt to siphon off more of the profits. According to Bell, the refiner informed him that he was “makin’ too much money!

When the talk of a rent hike elevated into a full-blown fighting match—Bell walked, taking his experience, know-how, and service station savvy right along with him. The luck of the highway was still with him, however: the Phillips Petroleum Company was opening a new refueling business in the Kingman area and they wanted him to man the pumps! Another operator took over the circuit breakers at the Flying A Service Station and—not surprisingly—it “went successfully downhill.

Eventually, Phillips Petroleum bought out the Associated Flying A stations in the west and the winged trademark slowly faded into obscurity. But that wasn’t really important. The sixties were more than half over, the country was undergoing a radical change, and Al Bell was getting out of the gas station business. His legs were giving him problems and his doctor advised that he take a load off. Running a gas station was no longer as easy as it used to be. It would never be again.

A Way of Life is Bypassed

When the implementation of major freeways rerouted most of the traffic around the old businesses in Kingman, the classic pumping venues were relieved of their status as highway havens. The great river of automobiles once flowing along Route 66 was reduced to a trickle, and there just weren’t enough customers to keep all of the businesses profitable. As a result, many closed. Others transformed themselves to accommodate the changing business.

With the advocacy of Ladybird Johnson’s “highway beautification program, it didn’t take long for the “Jugs Iced Free sign to be dismantled. Sadly, no one seemed to mind that a colorful piece of Kingman’s roadside history was being destroyed. After the twelve gas pumps and other evidence of refueling were removed, a business selling pottery and concrete bird baths occupied the shell of the former superstation. The Tideway Cafe’s great grub, the snappy full service attendants, the gleaming rest rooms, the young little-leaguer running out to the cars, visions of a pink Cadillac, and tons of complimentary ice cubes had evaporated in the searing heat of the Arizona desert. The memories of Al Bell’s Flying A Service Station had faded fast, as transitory as the ripples in the pools of rain water collected in the decorative basins for sale along the road.

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

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