Soggy fries smell like home
There's this one stretch of road that, for some reason, I always catch a whiff of soggy french fries. I'd think it was the harbinger of an aneurysm except that it's almost every day now. And as soon as I smell it, my mind's "Way-Back Machine" starts humming and I get to thinking about Bob's Burger Express.
Bob's Burger Express, or simply Bob's Hamburgers back when I was an ankle-biter, was (is?) a regional fast food franchise back in my old stomping grounds in Oregon. I can't say for sure if it still exists; various Google searches make it unclear. But whether it remains or not, at one time it held dominance in the "cheap, greasy belly-bomb burgers" that tasted so damned good, mostly because they were freakin' HOT! I don't know how these things were cooked, but I suspect there may have been a side business of smelting going on. It was the one fast food joint where the teenaged staff had no acne; all pours were open all the time for sheer survival purposes.
In high school, sometimes I'd be able to get together with The Man Himself and more than a few times we'd swing by Bob's. We could both afford it. Bob's was one of those places that offered "Fry Sauce" instead of ketchup, if you prefered. The fry sauce was suspiciously like the "Secret Sauce" that topped the burgers which was suspiciously like either Thousand Island dressing or simply ketchup and mayo with a few pickle bits mixed in. The Man Himself, I seem to remember, would ask for tarter sauce for his fries (he'll correct me if I'm wrong). Yes, I thought that odd at the time. The fact that I questioned his tarter sauce and not the fact that someone had poured salad dressing on my burger is a good argument for selective perception. Eating Bob's burgers in a blue Chevy Nova. Don't knock a good time.
Actually, my very first monetary transaction was at a Bob's. My folks were chaperoning a church youth event where they had a bus full of kids, going where I can't remember, and they'd brought my seven year old brother and my five year old self along. They stopped the bus in a parking lot where there was walking distance to about three or four different fast food places, and my dad had to stay with the bus while my mom wanted Taco Bell (and still does to this day). I wanted a burger, so my dad handed me a dollar and pointed to the Bob's. He told me to tell the people at the counter that I wanted a Bob's Burger Basket. I ran over, buck clutched in hand, waited in line and told the girl what I wanted. She asked me what I wanted to drink, and I almost ran back to the bus to ask my dad. Then I remembered that I like root beer. I got a burger, fries and a cup of chipped ice with a drizzle of root beer and ran back to the bus, amazed I'd pulled off this heist. There were lots of seats on the bus, but I ate out of the bag while I sat on dad's lap. He got some of the fries, I guess as a form of rent.
About that time, Bob's TV ads were of this little blonde kid, about four, who would peddle up a driveway in one of those old metal kiddie cars they don't have anymore. He'd be wearing a tie and the voice over would say something like, "When I get home from a long day at the office, I'm a hungry man." The same little kid would be narrating and letting us know how much he liked Bob's Hamburgers and his wife was happy not to have to make dinner that night (the wife played by some other cute toddler). There was a series of these: once he was a fireman, another time a cop. He always had the costume and they must have been adorable, but at the time I always saw those commercials and thought, "How do I get to be in commercials? I wanna be on TV too!" Skip ahead to college, and it's Sunday night and the dorm cafeteria is closed. My roommate Jeff invites me to come back to his parent's house for dinner with the family. Very cool offer, so I gladly accept. After dinner, Jeff's little sister says, "You want to see something funny?" "Always," I say, though I catch Jeff rolling his eyes. She puts in a video tape, and up comes the old Bob's Hamburger commercials. "I remember these!" I exclaim, and then I notice the sister grinning like a maniac. Jeff's almost fucia. "You're kidding me . . . I'm roommates with the Bob's Burger Boy?" Turns out, since his dad was the station manager of the local network affiliate, he had a lot of leeway when it came to advertising production. Jeff not only starred in the commercials, the little four year old nimrod wrote the copy. To this day, I'm still impressed. How's that for a brush with greatness. Only five more degrees away from Kevin Bacon, I'm sure.
And all this comes up from the smell of soggy fries. All this and a rumbly stomach too, I admit. Of course, every Summer I'll catch a whiff of berries and I'll immediately start jonesing for a Burgerville Blackberry Sundae, but that's another olfactory episode. Fresh cut lumber smells like John Beechy's backyard playhouse where he hid his uncle's dirty magazines, which are some very happy memories indeed. The older I get, the more associative odors I acquire, I guess.
Bob's Burger Express, or simply Bob's Hamburgers back when I was an ankle-biter, was (is?) a regional fast food franchise back in my old stomping grounds in Oregon. I can't say for sure if it still exists; various Google searches make it unclear. But whether it remains or not, at one time it held dominance in the "cheap, greasy belly-bomb burgers" that tasted so damned good, mostly because they were freakin' HOT! I don't know how these things were cooked, but I suspect there may have been a side business of smelting going on. It was the one fast food joint where the teenaged staff had no acne; all pours were open all the time for sheer survival purposes.
In high school, sometimes I'd be able to get together with The Man Himself and more than a few times we'd swing by Bob's. We could both afford it. Bob's was one of those places that offered "Fry Sauce" instead of ketchup, if you prefered. The fry sauce was suspiciously like the "Secret Sauce" that topped the burgers which was suspiciously like either Thousand Island dressing or simply ketchup and mayo with a few pickle bits mixed in. The Man Himself, I seem to remember, would ask for tarter sauce for his fries (he'll correct me if I'm wrong). Yes, I thought that odd at the time. The fact that I questioned his tarter sauce and not the fact that someone had poured salad dressing on my burger is a good argument for selective perception. Eating Bob's burgers in a blue Chevy Nova. Don't knock a good time.
Actually, my very first monetary transaction was at a Bob's. My folks were chaperoning a church youth event where they had a bus full of kids, going where I can't remember, and they'd brought my seven year old brother and my five year old self along. They stopped the bus in a parking lot where there was walking distance to about three or four different fast food places, and my dad had to stay with the bus while my mom wanted Taco Bell (and still does to this day). I wanted a burger, so my dad handed me a dollar and pointed to the Bob's. He told me to tell the people at the counter that I wanted a Bob's Burger Basket. I ran over, buck clutched in hand, waited in line and told the girl what I wanted. She asked me what I wanted to drink, and I almost ran back to the bus to ask my dad. Then I remembered that I like root beer. I got a burger, fries and a cup of chipped ice with a drizzle of root beer and ran back to the bus, amazed I'd pulled off this heist. There were lots of seats on the bus, but I ate out of the bag while I sat on dad's lap. He got some of the fries, I guess as a form of rent.
About that time, Bob's TV ads were of this little blonde kid, about four, who would peddle up a driveway in one of those old metal kiddie cars they don't have anymore. He'd be wearing a tie and the voice over would say something like, "When I get home from a long day at the office, I'm a hungry man." The same little kid would be narrating and letting us know how much he liked Bob's Hamburgers and his wife was happy not to have to make dinner that night (the wife played by some other cute toddler). There was a series of these: once he was a fireman, another time a cop. He always had the costume and they must have been adorable, but at the time I always saw those commercials and thought, "How do I get to be in commercials? I wanna be on TV too!" Skip ahead to college, and it's Sunday night and the dorm cafeteria is closed. My roommate Jeff invites me to come back to his parent's house for dinner with the family. Very cool offer, so I gladly accept. After dinner, Jeff's little sister says, "You want to see something funny?" "Always," I say, though I catch Jeff rolling his eyes. She puts in a video tape, and up comes the old Bob's Hamburger commercials. "I remember these!" I exclaim, and then I notice the sister grinning like a maniac. Jeff's almost fucia. "You're kidding me . . . I'm roommates with the Bob's Burger Boy?" Turns out, since his dad was the station manager of the local network affiliate, he had a lot of leeway when it came to advertising production. Jeff not only starred in the commercials, the little four year old nimrod wrote the copy. To this day, I'm still impressed. How's that for a brush with greatness. Only five more degrees away from Kevin Bacon, I'm sure.
And all this comes up from the smell of soggy fries. All this and a rumbly stomach too, I admit. Of course, every Summer I'll catch a whiff of berries and I'll immediately start jonesing for a Burgerville Blackberry Sundae, but that's another olfactory episode. Fresh cut lumber smells like John Beechy's backyard playhouse where he hid his uncle's dirty magazines, which are some very happy memories indeed. The older I get, the more associative odors I acquire, I guess.