On the Road Again—Burger Buzz
Today I took a drive out to the small town of Fall City for lunch. The road meanders off Interstate 90 in Washington through heavily forested greenery—an artist’s palette of greens with lush, lacy ferns, thickets of berry vines, and majestic trees pierced here and there with a kaleidoscope of sunshine. I stopped at the Raging River Café and ordered a cheeseburger and fries. As I sat waiting for it, I thought about all the miles I’ve traveled and all the memories of grabbing a bite in small towns across the country and how often it’s been the classic American hamburger that I cannot resist.
History of the American Hamburger
A complicated mythology has arisen about the source of the hamburger, but a Google search suggests that, in 1921, Billy Ingram and Walter Anderson opened the first fast-food hamburger establishment, White Castle, in Wichita, Kansas. They offered small 5-cent hamburgers, sold “by the sack.”
It wasn’t until after WWII that the burger really became king of the road. When entrepreneurial Ray Kroc—who I knew briefly in San Diego—happened upon the McDonald brothers’ Burger Bar Drive-In in San Bernardino, California, he had the vision that expanded their concept worldwide. By the late 1950s, they had sold over 100 million hamburgers. Today, McDonald’s restaurants can be found in more than 100 countries and reportedly service 69 million people every day!
Bikers and Burgers
But getting back to my own road food memories, I thought about how popular burgers also are when motorcyclists are chowing down on long cross-country adventures.
Bikers love a burger, fries, and strong black coffee or an icy beer (American, if you please, not one of those Micro-guys or foreign brews)—probably a Millers, a Coors, or a Bud. Bottle, no glass. Although a few of us are coffee freaks and addicted to our lattes and mochas, most of us think there is nothing better after a cold, rainy ride than to stomp our way into a restaurant and gulp down a midnight-black cup of coffee that has a faintly burnt aroma to it and is so thick and strong that it looks like engine oil. The first gulp scalds all the way down, then spreads out in the stomach, beating back the shivers and shakes from incipient hypothermia. Our ungloved, raw, red hands wrap around the cup in warm pleasure. It is the simple things that you become so keenly aware of on the road—many pretensions of so-called “civilized” or “urban” life just fall away.
When it comes to burgers, the bigger the better—no turkey, chicken, or tofu faux burgers—just good old red meat in a huge, well-done slab. On a soft white bun, ketchup or mayo slathered on the top half, the hot, just-off-the-griddle grease of the meat soaking into the bottom. Cheese, chili, or bacon—maybe pickles, lettuce, and tomato. Don’t hold back on the fries—hot browned wedges crisped on the outside and mushy on the inside, ketchup drizzled on top. Oh, and don’t forget a thick slice of white or yellow onion on that burger!
One thing about bikers: those who love onions eat them, those that don’t do not complain. Conditions on the road are not so fussy—dust, sweat, grease or oil, wearing the same clothes several days in a row, eating onions or garlic—these are not our main concerns. We are focused on the camaraderie, the landscape, and the thunder of our machines, not so much on polite society. And it’s a relief to periodically escape all those notions about what’s naughty or nice.
Biker Culture
Around the country there are roadside taverns or bars that cater to the motorcycling crowd. These are casual places, their walls often lined with biking paraphernalia—rusty parts, bandannas, photos of bike clubs, rally posters—all mixed in with a Biker Babe shot or two torn from a recent issue of Easy Rider or the like, and neon or lighted signs touting the sexy benefits of various beers. Most of these bars have been around for a long time, have boot-scarred wooden floors and booths, and smell slightly of booze and smoke. There is often a pool table or two, and an aura of parties past that blasted the roof off the joint.
Every biker knows a few of these places where they can rest their road-stiffened bods, stretch their legs, count on some hot, solid food, a cold beer or strong cup of coffee, and enjoy a sense of being with family, of being accepted simply because you know what it is to ride the beast over the mountain. A woman who “rides her own” can stop in here and not be hassled. Oh, the men might offer a beer or strike up a conversation about her bike, but in general there is an air of respect for anyone who has been there and done that.
Once I began riding, I enjoyed many a respite in some small, out-of-the-way café, a friendly chat with regular folks who work hard and serve good plain meals for reasonable prices. Most people seem pretty amazed when they find out I ride my own motorcycle and am off on a solo adventure. The women I meet are encouraging, take a small amount of personal pride in my achievement, and often look longingly out the window at the beckoning highway.
I have seen a few people turn up their noses and tighten their lips when I walk in, judging me by my black leathers, my disheveled appearance, the fact that I am obviously a biker (and, therefore, probably a BAD woman, and a threat to orderly, responsible lives). I don’t mind. Most of my life I have fought against the judgments that my middle-of-the-road looks, my glasses, my bookish way of speaking and generally conservative dress have brought my way. There is something deep in the heart of every person that yearns to be thought exciting, sexy, adventurous—to be seen as an individual beyond the career and family roles we have chosen and must manage . . .
Well, back to the present . . .
My order arrives, I put on my reading glasses and turn to my latest book, scarf down that juicy burger. I’m not in my biker gear, my beautiful Road Goddess is not parked outside—I’ve morphed back into my everyday disguise, the serious, frizzy-headed intellectual. Oh the stories I could tell! # # #