Just a little piece north of Richmond, Virginia, on Lakeside Avenue amid the 1940-ish neighborhood and the plethora of auto repair establishments, there wafts the aroma of the 1960s. In a ramshackle square of a building straight out of a time where the world was viewed through black and white photos, sits the worldwide headquarters of Roy’s Big, Burger (yes, there is a comma there and it’s there because Roy put it there). Eccentricity makes anything taste better.
Today, Susan Abby and I dined on a sack of Roy’s signature hamburgers and fries in our car next to the wooden structure that screams “Who cares what the joint looks like, just eat your doggone burger and remember where burgers came from in the first place!”
One bite and my mouth was 7 years old again, wicked with onions, squishing a real tomato slice and swimming in mustard. Roy’s burger has a by-God chunk of American beef, not that pathetic little cardboard-ish wafer you find in so many fast food burger joints (except Hardee’s). There’s no ketchup. If you want the red stuff, put it on yourself.
On the menu is the standard fare: hamburger, double hamburger, triple hamburger and its cheesy cousin in all three categories. They have hot dogs and corn dogs, chicken fillets and the bologna burger, which I am going to try next week. I won’t lie; it’s not the nicest looking place you’ll frequent, but that’s not the point. It’s genuine, not homogenized. The smell roaming around in your nose makes you feel like JFK might still be in office with Bobby on the phone planning the Bay of Pigs or trading insults with Jimmy Hoffa (pre-Meadowlands).
Even though they are about to close in three minutes (and they are precise on that closing time), or 2:30 p.m., there is a line of 10 people out front. No chairs, no tables inside, no inside at all except where the real work is being done. You walk up to the window and do your business and you feel good about it, too, because right there next to the window is a man who is making the burgers on a slab of steaming metal. People stand in groups and stare at him respectfully as if his actions are some kind of American ritual. I can’t help but wonder what he thinks all day while burgering his way to quitting time. There is no doubt he knows what he’s doing, however – your tongue confirms his handiwork.
Maybe your town has a place like this. In my hometown it was The Shamrock. I remember Kincaid’s in Fort Worth serving up one of the best burgers in Texas. You stood next the grocery shelves to eat the beefy orb as grease and mustard dripped down your elbows. Every town needs a place like this. It gives us a sense of place and helps us remember who we are and why our arteries are slowly pinching shut.
If you know of such a burger joint in your town, write me and tell me about it. If I’m ever there, I’ll go do some market research.
