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.

When two elderly ladies considered selling out their ten-stool lunch counter on Colorado Boulevard, Wian saw his opportunity. Still, he had to make a painful decision: sell his prized 1933 De Soto roadster to get the bulk of the $350 asking price or pass over the deal.  It was a clear choice.  The car found a new owner and Wian got the money he needed.  The eatery was his!  He renamed it Bob’s Pantry and began to work the counter alone.

Members of Chuck Foster’s Orchestra adopted the Pantry as a late-night hangout and stopped in frequently after gigs.  High-school pals of Wian’s felt comfortable there, filling up with numerous hamburgers, gallons of Hires root beer, and packets of cigarettes.  One frosty night in February of 1937, bass musician Stewie Strange became bored with the usual midnight snack and uttered the historic question, now ensconced in legend: “How about something different for a change, Bob?”

In a teasing mood, Wian was quick to accommodate.  He proceeded to cut a sesame seed bun into three slices and flipped two burgers onto the griddle. While the meat sizzled, the band watched in fascination as leaves of lettuce and slices of cheese were readied on the sideboard.  Finally, the cooked patties were lifted from the hot plate.  Wian plopped on some relish, and began stacking up a ridiculous caricature of the hamburger—a double-decked delight pushing burger creativity to the outer limits. The band loved it!

A few days later, chunky Richard Woodruff wandered in through the front door.  He lived down the street and often came in to sweep the floor and perform other busy work for Wian.  Only six years old, he was already exhibiting a “Wimpy sized appetite for hamburgs [sic]—with a stomach to match.” HE figured out his own way to get ‘em and charmed both the lunch time customers and Wian with his plump physique and droopy overalls.  It came as no surprise to the regulars why Bob Wian christened his unique sandwich the “Big Boy!

After a local cartoonist sketched a rendition of the urchin on a napkin, the tousled hair and chubby cheeks became a trademark adorning the front facade.  News of the great-tasting “double-deck” cheeseburger spread and within three years, Wian opened a second eatery in Los Angeles.  By 1949, he was franchising his sandwich (and its youthful mascot) to operators in a half-dozen states.  Meanwhile, a trio of his own Big Boy dinettes prospered. Featuring “snappy service drive-in lanes and inside seating,” their transitional design bridged the carhop era with the coming age of coffee-shops.  In 1964, Wian’s built his last open-air unit.

Bob's Double-Deck Big Boy Cheeseburger

A few years later, McDonald’s franchisee Jim Delligatti wanted to bring out a “new idea for a sandwich” when he remembered Wian’s tasty double.  During the fifties, he managed a West Coast drive-in and was impressed by the numerous imitators of the twin burger.  But whether whether or not he was influenced by nostalgia or his own imagination remains unclear … what’s certain is that he developed a close copy of the bi-level Big Boy.  Later, he admitted that the conception of this burger clone “wasn’t like discovering the light bulb—the bulb was already there … all I did was screw it in the socket.” Of course, no credit was given to Wian for his original creation.

Delligatti’s Big “Mac” was introduced nationwide at McDonald’s outlets in 1968.  The stacked sandwich was an immediate hit, soon accounting for nineteen percent of sales! But, that was no surprise for Robert C. Wian, Jr.  His double-decked sandwich—created at the spur of the moment to satisfy the desire for something different—had already built a food empire.  Another variation on the theme couldn’t hurt. He—and everyone else acquainted with hamburger history … would always know the Big Boy was Bob’s. ]]> http://michaelwitzel.com/wordpress/bobs-big-boy-burger/feed/ 0 http://michaelwitzel.com/wordpress/fable-of-the-golden-arches/ http://michaelwitzel.com/wordpress/fable-of-the-golden-arches/#comments Mon, 01 Sep 2008 07:52:49 +0000 Michael Witzel http://michaelwitzel.com/wordpress/?p=267 Richard and Maurice McDonald were planning to franchise their successful burger system in 1952. To stand above the visual noise created by miles of drive-ins, motels, car washes, bowling alleys, service stations, and coffee-shops—they decided a new structural style was needed. Without a unique design, nationwide recognition for their walk-up stand was an impossibility.

McDonalds Golden Arches (circa 1950s)

With this simple aim in the forefront, professional architects in Southern California were approached. A few interesting concepts were drafted for the brothers’ review—but unfortunately … met with immediate rejection. Later described by Richard McDonald as “squatty looking boxes,” they exhibited a blatant lack of memorable charm or character.

Undaunted, the drawings were taken home for further contemplation. Then, while Richard McDonald pored over the plans in his office one rainy night—the arrow of inspiration found its mark. He had an idea! With limited talents as an artist and unbounded intuition about what a roadside stand should look like, he began to sketch some tentative plans.

First, the height of the building had to be lifted. Tapping into personal preferences, Richard penciled in a slanted roof—sloping gradually from the front to rear. Influenced by Colonial columns dominating his twenty-five room house, he included a few variations. Though imposing, they weren’t the elusive element he desired in a fast-food restaurant.

Next, he oriented a large semi-circle parallel to the front of the square building. It looked a little funny, so he discarded the idea and proceeded to draw two arches—positioning one of them at each side of the structure. This time, he arranged them perpendicular to where the road might be. As soon as he lifted his writing instrument from the paper at the bottom of the second arch, McDonald realized he had found the answer.

Swelled with the post-invention confidence typical of any vanguard, he presented Fontana architect Stanley Meston with the idea. Unprepared for the abstract incarnation of Coffee-shop Modern, Stan posed his question: “Dick, did you have a bad dream last night?” The garish arches assaulted his design sensibilities! He wanted no part of them—detailing their obvious impracticality to the brothers (amazingly, he would lay claim to the arch idea—decades later).

Unfazed by the response, McDonald stuck to his vision. He wanted those arches and would have them! If Meston wouldn’t work with the idea, then they would get someone else. Predictably, he eventually caught the vision and cooperated with sign maker George Dexter to amplify the golden wings with neon.

After further refinements were made, an eye-grabbing rendering was drawn up. Now, curved circles became taught parabolas—flaring gradually at their base. The upper portions of the dual yellow bands—along with the edges of the flying wedge roof, were rimmed with tubes of neon. Walls, striped with dramatic red and white tiles, jazzed the exterior.

Businessman Neil Fox and associates took the hook and became the first McDonald’s franchisee in America to construct the arched design. In May of 1953, the illuminated arches born on a scrap of paper finally came to life in Phoenix, Arizona. As they brightened the opening night with their futuristic energy, lines of customers were dazzled by the sight. To many, it was obvious that the age of drive-ins and carhop service … was over. The amazing success story of Richard McDonald’s golden arches was just beginning.

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.