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Downtown is a drive-in called "the Varsity" and is reputed to be the world's largest drive-thru restaurant. Although the Guinness world records site makes no claim to support that boast, I will assume it is true.
Built in 1928 it is a sprawling vintage visage in heavenly chrome and conglomerate tile. The spectacularly greasy food daily lubricates the working stiffs of this major metropolis and fills the steel stomachs of the resident college students coming off a post-final drunk. Churchfolk in Sunday black and white crowd the lobby at the end of the week, absolved of their sins and ready to rack up some delicious new ones.
If your heart is pure and your spirit is righteous, sometimes they will give you a hat.
The air inside the restaurant smells of onions, disinfectant and weird homeless people who talk to the inside of their shirt pockets. Ancient embittered cashiers who are from a country you have never heard of and have tattoos on their faces shout over the counters even before their last customer has escaped with their trays - "WHAT'LL YA HAVE?"
This is the cue for the seasoned Varsity goer to step up to the pearly counter and announce clearly and concisely their order and then put down an adequate amount of cash forthwith. People who are new to the process, tourists and the meek who hesitate are verbally berated with the commandment "MONEY IN YO HAND! ORDER IN YO MIND!" repeatedly until they can stammer out they want two plain hamburgers and a chocolate milk, which translates roughly into "twin nekkid steak an a PC".
Fries appear by the thousands as if by magic. They are so sinfully tasty and remarkably bad for you I believe the devil himself is in the back with a chef hat cocked crooked between his horns frying them up. The burgers are beef only in the sense that they are brown and once may have come from a animal, but nothing is better for post-concert peckishness while your ears are still ringing and the THC flows through your veins.
No amount of expensive mineral water will wash that 50 year old grease from your arteries. Even though my questionable habit of eating there everyday for months ended long ago in my late teens, my first stroke will likely have the Varsity trademark right on it.
When you get your food, should you choose to eat there, you must decide which room to sit in. Each section has its own TV with a specific channel that can never be changed. Generally the channel 11 room is the safest bet with channel 2 being the second choice.
Channel 5 is purgatory.
Today on our aimless way to pick up some lunch, the new building on Exit 9 that I had been casting a suspicious eye on for weeks had finally uncovered the new "Varsity" sign and flung open its doors to the faithful. I answered the call and succumbed to the sweet sweet song of the fried pie.
Truthfully, it wasn't quite the same. There was no pervasive smell, the people who worked there smiled sweetly and you didn't have to look before you sat down.
The fries were still good however and the man emptying the rubbish bin had Jesus tattooed on the back of his neck.
Halleluiah!
Built in 1928 it is a sprawling vintage visage in heavenly chrome and conglomerate tile. The spectacularly greasy food daily lubricates the working stiffs of this major metropolis and fills the steel stomachs of the resident college students coming off a post-final drunk. Churchfolk in Sunday black and white crowd the lobby at the end of the week, absolved of their sins and ready to rack up some delicious new ones.
If your heart is pure and your spirit is righteous, sometimes they will give you a hat.
The air inside the restaurant smells of onions, disinfectant and weird homeless people who talk to the inside of their shirt pockets. Ancient embittered cashiers who are from a country you have never heard of and have tattoos on their faces shout over the counters even before their last customer has escaped with their trays - "WHAT'LL YA HAVE?"
This is the cue for the seasoned Varsity goer to step up to the pearly counter and announce clearly and concisely their order and then put down an adequate amount of cash forthwith. People who are new to the process, tourists and the meek who hesitate are verbally berated with the commandment "MONEY IN YO HAND! ORDER IN YO MIND!" repeatedly until they can stammer out they want two plain hamburgers and a chocolate milk, which translates roughly into "twin nekkid steak an a PC".
Fries appear by the thousands as if by magic. They are so sinfully tasty and remarkably bad for you I believe the devil himself is in the back with a chef hat cocked crooked between his horns frying them up. The burgers are beef only in the sense that they are brown and once may have come from a animal, but nothing is better for post-concert peckishness while your ears are still ringing and the THC flows through your veins.
No amount of expensive mineral water will wash that 50 year old grease from your arteries. Even though my questionable habit of eating there everyday for months ended long ago in my late teens, my first stroke will likely have the Varsity trademark right on it.
When you get your food, should you choose to eat there, you must decide which room to sit in. Each section has its own TV with a specific channel that can never be changed. Generally the channel 11 room is the safest bet with channel 2 being the second choice.
Channel 5 is purgatory.
Today on our aimless way to pick up some lunch, the new building on Exit 9 that I had been casting a suspicious eye on for weeks had finally uncovered the new "Varsity" sign and flung open its doors to the faithful. I answered the call and succumbed to the sweet sweet song of the fried pie.
Truthfully, it wasn't quite the same. There was no pervasive smell, the people who worked there smiled sweetly and you didn't have to look before you sat down.
The fries were still good however and the man emptying the rubbish bin had Jesus tattooed on the back of his neck.
Halleluiah!
