Historians trace the ancestry of the zesty mixture as far back as the Roman Empire. Ancient cooks created a sauce from the entrails of dried fish they called “garum,” a highly prized addition to the dinner table. The more familiar word “ketchup” however, probably had its origins in the 1690s, from what the Chinese called “kôe-chiap” or “kê-tsiap.” Created from the brine of pickled fish or shellfish, it was the Orient’s answer to a flavor enhancing food additive.

After the East India Company opened trade with the Far East during the sixteenth century, the port markets of Singapore became a favorite place for sailors. There, exotic dishes accompanied by a tasty hot sauce dubbed “kechap” were hyped by Malaysian vendors. The dressing became an immediate favorite and promptly exported when the seafarers returned home (the Dutch renamed it Ketjap). Before too long, frazzled housewives began experimenting with the recipe, attempting to recreate the tantalizing concoction that their well-traveled husbands were raving about.

It came as no surprise that Mrs. Harrison’s Housekeeper’s Pocketbook and Mrs. Glasse’s Cookery Book began featuring recipes during the 1700s to aid the creative cook in her kitchen adventures. But, since the exotic ingredients used in the Indonesian mixture were not available in England, home cooks cleverly substituted a variety of other staples. Ketchups made of mushrooms became the first choice, followed by purees based on tomatoes, walnuts, anchovies, and even oysters.

Despite the variations, the notion of ketchup as a food enhancer began to grow in popularity. Sailors returning to America eventually brought the sauce with them across the Atlantic, adding the tomatoes they gathered during expeditions to Mexico or the West Indies. Their families loved the taste, and soon, tomato seeds were planted so that they might have their own personal supply of the prime ingredient.

Suddenly, women realized that the task of mixing up large batches of the condiment was added to their wifely duties. It was a laborious job, requiring an entire day of stirring just to ensure that the pulp didn’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Around this time, a man by the name of Henry J. Heinz saw his opportunity in this work and wasted no time adding ketchup to the line of condiments he was producing for sale. In 1876, he began to manufacture and bottle America’s first commercially processed tomato ketchup.

Since then, ketchup has risen to its place of prominence as the supreme comfort food condiment for the masses. The distinctive multi-faceted bottle has established itself as an icon of the fast food table top, taking its rightful place alongside salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispensers For the frenzied aficionados who thump, shake, and pour the piquant sauce upon every conceivable foodstuff known to man, there is nothing that compares!

Move over, mayonnaise, mustard, and secret sauce—tomato ketchup reigns unchallenged as the primo flavor enhancer for junk food—coast to coast. Call it ketchup, catsup, or catchup—nobody really cares. Just be sure that there is a full bottle on the table, an ample supply in the squeeze pump, and at least a half dozen of those little plastic packets in the bag!

Related Ketchup Links and Resources:

• See the World’s Largest Catsup Bottle
• History of the Heinz Company
• Ketchup In a Bottle Levitation Trick
• How Ketchup is Made Funny Video

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.

Invention of the American Diner

The precursor to the fast food eatery began in 1872 when Walter Scott, a myopic pressman for the Providence Journal (and one-time street vendor), became serious about selling food and refreshments in the streets. That year, he abandoned the security of his job and swore to dedicate his life to street vending. “I decided that I’d quit other work altogether, he revealed to a Providence Journal reporter. “I figured I could build a good trade in a little while … and make a decent living out of it.”

Friendly Counter Service, Interior Counter Scene, and White Castle

Scott had the moxie to make it work, along with an unheard of plan: instead of wearing out the soles of his shoes and roaming the streets of Providence, Rhode Island, he decided to buy a horse drawn delivery van. Rolling on four wagon wheels, he would take his food to the people.

His wheeled pantry caught more than its share of onlookers: on each side of the rig, Scott hacked out a rectangular opening! Through what may have been America’s first “walk up windows,” he fielded orders and served the passersby with a simple fare of egg sandwiches, coffee, and pie.

It proved to be the perfect setup. Scott prepared the comestibles at home, packed them into the van, and trotted around Providence to secure the top sales location for the day or night. When foot traffic thinned and business waned, all he had to do was hitch up his horse and roll off to a more profitable street! For a vendor selling food in the urban environment, this was the best possible configuration for sales.

Scotty's ©2008 Gabriele

A Welcome Alternative to Sit Down Fare

The roving lunch wagon format was welcomed by customers, too. At the time, most American cities were ill-equipped to handle workers who desired a quick bite to eat … at a reasonable price. A few city hotels featured lavish sit-down restaurants, but these were hardly a practical choice for the working man on a budget. Like most of the other fine eating houses, the prices were exorbitant and the atmosphere tailored for the more affluent, well-heeled clientele.

Of course, there were a few bars and nickel dining houses where men of toil could go elbow-to-elbow with crowds of drunken men to wolf down a plate of grub. At many of these dives, the patrons were privy to a free lunch, as long as they purchased a drink or glass of wine. Not surprisingly, it was an uncivilized way to get a meal. One writer of the age described the method of dining as one of “gulp, gobble, and go!”

Besides the lack of atmosphere, the drinking buffets had limited hours and only offered their spreads at noon. After dark, getting a bite to eat was difficult since most bars didn’t offer food and the low-budget hash houses closed for the night. Even the high class eateries shut their doors after the dinner hour. For these reasons, late-night workers were destined to go hungry unless they brought along their food from home.

It’s no surprise that Scott’s late-night lunch wagon became a friendly beacon in the dark. Before long, his wagon was a regular haunt for hungry insomniacs, red-eyed carousers, municipal workers, cab drivers, deliverymen, trolley car conductors, policemen, and even the well-to-do. After Scotty took up residence in front of the Providence Daily Journal offices, former co-workers and friends became devoted fans. Here was the paradigm for streetside dining … based on service, speed, and quality.

The Lunch Wagon Asserts its Domain

With all that it had going for it, it didn’t take long for other entrepreneurs to take notice of Scott’s operation. A Providence policeman by the name of Ruel Jones was the first to copy the setup, with one major difference: he hired a local wagon maker to build a custom unit equipped with a serving shelf! Lunch wagons were improving.

Chili Bar-B-Q Lunch (Photographer: Arthur Rothstein, Library of Congress)

Ruel’s cousin, Samuel Messer Jones, was the next to gain prominence in the trade. He started out small and saved up the $800 he needed to design and build a lunch wagon that allowed the customers to stand inside to eat! His “distinctive night lunch wagon was built with fine woods and adorned with ornate etched glass windows.” With Sam Jones’ entry into the business, the level of lunch wagon beauty raised up a notch.

Around the same time, a hopeful street salesman by the name of Charles Palmer got the idea to work the shift after Jones closed his own operation down. Palmer thought that the night was a great time to sell food and reasoned that there “were a lot of people going to the theater, to square dances and sewing bees, drinking in the saloons, and so on … who had to go home sometime.” While on their way to their humble abodes, he planned to feed them and rake in the after-hour profits.

Indeed, the late-night clientele was plentiful and by 1891, Palmer made history when he took out America’s first patent for a lunch wagon! Although lunch wagons were a regular sight on the city streets, not one operator had the vision to register their design! He went on to do quite well in the streetside dining trade and contributed many innovations to art of wagon design, gaining notoriety by building “lunch wagons of every description, made to order.”

Enter the “Original Lunch Wagon King”

However, Palmer didn’t etch his name into the history books as the sandwich man who dominated the early American diner trade. Nor did Scott, or even Jones. The title of “Original Lunch Wagon King” was reserved for Thomas H. Buckley, a former janitor and cook who worked his way up from relative obscurity to gain widespread prominence in the lunch wagon business. His claim to fame and way to fortune were the famous eateries known as “The White House Cafes, a line of gleaming wheeled wagons that lent a respectable image to the trade and pulled the industry further away from its somewhat working-class, beanery image.” The homemade wagon was definitely seeing the last of its days.

The Owl Stamp

In all respects, Buckley’s Cafes set the new standard for beauty: the windows were frosted, made of blue and red flash glass, or etched with the portraits of past presidents Washington, Lincoln, or Grant! The exterior walls were painted a bright, titanium white and then decorated with ornate paintings depicting famous events in history. Inside, fine finished woodwork and brass fittings raised the bar of comfort. Buckley took the basic concept, added a touch of luxury, and kicked the trade into a new realm.

By 1910, Buckley’s beauties helped to establish the lunch wagon as a permanent part of the city scene. And what a scene it was: with its densely populated towns, the New England region became a hotbed of lunch wagon construction. As fast as they could, manufacturers like Wilfred Barriere, Albert H. Clossen, P.J. Tierney, and the Worcestor Lunch Car Company began turning out compact, mobile restaurants.

Meanwhile, electrical power gained a foothold. A number of towns began taking their horse drawn trolleys out of service to replace them with electrically-powered units. As trolley companies scrapped old cars, they caught the eye of men who were out to make a fast buck in the diner biz. The idea was simple: buy a few of the junked cars at bottom dollar, outfit them with a small stove and other equipment, and sell them as cheap lunch wagons. For those who couldn’t afford a costly Palmer or a Buckley, it was a quick way in. Soon, a raft of these trolley lunches joined other diners in the street and things got crowded.

Birth of the Stationary Diner

With all of the horse drawn delivery wagons, hansom cabs, and lunch wagons rolling about, established cities implemented laws to ban the food carts. Others imposed restricted hours of operation. As the rules tightened, any operator who wanted to remain in business had to find a permanent location and set down roots. As the dust settled, electrical lines, sewer pipes, and solid foundations replaced the wagon wheels. The stationary diner was born!

Once the diner found its equilibrium, the industry took off faster than a burger patty sliding across a griddle. Three major diner makers emerged and formed the basis of the American diner industry: At the top, the Worcester Lunch Car Company earned a fine reputation with lunch cars of wood and porcelain panels. Diner maker P.J. Tierney pioneered comforts such as the indoor toilet. Irishman Jerry O’Mahony added a new sense of class to diner architecture.

During the 1930s, prefabricated diners reached the height of roadside design when manufacturers built beautiful, streamlined structures. J.B. Judkins produced a curvy model called the Sterling Streamliner and even the Worcester Lunch Car Company came out with a fast, angle-ended building. Suddenly, roadside restaurants looked faster than the car customers they served!

Over the next twenty years, diners kept pace with the tremendous growth of the automobile industry and by the 1950s, the diner was no longer the tiny vending wagon it once was. Now, it was a big, full service restaurant! Draped in stainless steel panels and decorated with multicolor bands of neon tubing, motorists recognized it as a solid symbol of American enterprise.

Yes sir, when the public was in the mood for a simple meal that they could purchase at a fair price, they patronized diners. While there was increased competition in the form of drive-in restaurants (with their carhop service) and later walkup fast food stands, the diners managed to hold their own—especially along the East Coast.

Fast Food Overtakes the Diners

Unfortunately, the regional loyalty enjoyed by the diner was not enough to sustain the format nationwide. With the speed of cars and pace of life increasing, people were in a big hurry to work, play, and eat their meals—preferably—in the front seat of their cars. The very idea of leaving one’s vehicle to sit down in a cramped diner booth wasn’t as attractive as it once was. The front seat was America’s new dining room and like it or not, speed became the new creed. Quality was on the way out.

The Diner, April 1950 Cover

When America’s diners could no longer compete with the proliferation of budget burger bars and prefabricated food, they slowly retreated. Established diners entered a sustaining mode and hung on with their fingernails. As the nation entered the 1970s, many of our nation’s diner men cloaked their buildings with wood or brick to hide their identity (perhaps their judgment was affected by the crazy disco beat). Suddenly, diners were viewed as greasy spoons and thought of as a liability rather than asset.

As some operators sold out and closed their doors, many took to the challenge and remodeled. Some adopted the architectural leanings of the day and built diners in the Colonial style. Functional structures were passé. It seemed like restaurateurs wanted to copy the Howard Johnson’s look and make the roadside over to appear as it did during those frowsy days of antiquity.

Meanwhile, a few of the diner men took the outer image of their diners over the top with decorative embellishments. Suddenly, the once classy roadside appliance that was the diner emerged as a monument to Grecian style. On the opposite end of the spectrum, those who saw the future took off with the space age Jetsons styling that the remaining diner makers were currently offering.

To the diner aficionado, it seemed that the stainless steel dream of the American diner was degrading into a nightmare, that is, until the aging masses of baby boomers suddenly rediscovered the magic of sitting on a stool, eating a blue-plate special at a counter, and playing their favorite fifties tunes on their own jukebox controller.

A Nostalgia For Diners Emerges

Suddenly, enthusiasts were writing about diners, painting pictures of them, restoring them, and spreading the gospel of real diner architecture and inexpensive comfort foods! When the movie “Diner” hit the theaters, audiences recalled the magic of their teenage years and sought to relive the days of their favorite diner booth. Ever so slowly, the diner made a pop culture rebound and suddenly, they were “cool” again.

Today, the restaurants that began as simple, horsedrawn lunch wagons have seen a grand resurgence. Diner manufacturers like Kullman Industries, DeRaffele, Diner-Mite, Starlite, and more are fielding a multitude of orders for new diners. Many original diners are now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The mom and pop eateries that have survived the lean decades are basking in the glory of the reawakening, too. Customers are returning, and old classics are seen regularly in television commercials, motion pictures, and print advertising.

As fast food quality continues to wane and customer service falters, America’s fast, friendly, accommodating diners are taking up the slack. Ask anyone in the diner industry and they will tell you that “The report of the diner’s demise has been greatly exaggerated!” In the same spirit of Walter Scott’s first lunch cart, they occupy a place of prominence along the great American roadside and are ready, willing, and able to serve well into the new millennium. Nothing could be finer than eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner in an American Diner!

Article text and images ©2008 Michael Karl Witzel, All Rights Reserved.

The American Diner

Please email the author for reproduction permission.

If you are a fan of diners and other roadside eateries, be sure to look for Witzel’s book, The American Diner (Motorbooks Stock Number 127144AP, Hardcover, 10 x 10 size, 160 pages, 50 b&w illustrations, 150 color, $29.95).

This title is currently being reprinted in a paperback edition, but original hardcover copies can be found here on Amazon.com.

Kirby’s idea was simple: patrons were to drive up in their automobiles and make their food requests from behind the wheel. A young lad would take the customers’ orders directly through the window of the car and then deliver the food and beverages right back out to the curb. The novelty of this new format was that hurried diners could consume their meals while still sitting in the front seat.

Of course, the Roaring Twenties were ripe for such a brazen idea. Adventurous folk perched atop flagpoles, danced the Charleston at around the clock dance marathons, and consumed bathtub gin at speakeasies. During Prohibition, freedom of travel emerged as the new thrill, fueled by automobile ownership that soared from six million to twenty-seven million motorcars by decade’s end.

When Kirby and Jackson’s Texas “Pig Stand opened along the busy Dallas-Fort Worth Highway (West Davis Street) in the Fall of 1921, hoards of Texas motorists tipped their ten-gallon hats to “America’s Motor Lunch. Here was the ultimate dine-in-your-car convenience—starring Kirby and Jackson’s newest hand-held creation, the “Pig Sandwich. Prepared with tender slices of roast pork loin, pickle relish, and barbecue sauce, it quickly gained a loyal following among harried commuters and carefree joy riders. A frosty bottle of Dr Pepper (another Texas favorite, invented at a soda fountain in Waco) accompanied the motoring meal.

But the tasty curbside cuisine wasn’t the only attraction at America’s first drive-in restaurant. The flamboyant car servers who worked the curb—or “carhops as someone coined the phrase—were truly a sight to behold. “All the car hops were young men, probably 12 to 15 years old, recalls Richard Hailey, successor to the Pig Stand throne and acting president of Pig Stands, Inc. “The carhops were very competitive. As soon as they saw a Model T start to slow down and turn tires towards the curb, they’d race out to see who could jump up on the running board first while the car was still moving.

With its good food and derring-do curb service, the legend of the carhop grew as the reputation of the Pig Stands and its signature barbecue sandwich spread. Propelled beyond the borders of Texas by one of the first franchising arrangements in the industry, the number of restaurants multiplied quickly. Between 1921 and 1934, more than 100 Pig Stands were serving up “A Good Meal At Any Time in Texas, California, Louisiana, Mississippi, New York, Florida, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Alabama.

As the demands of the American automobile owner changed, fast food innovation shaped the Pig Stand legacy. According to Hailey, “It was California Pig Stand No. 21 that pioneered drive through car service in 1931. Unheard of at the time, customers drove right up to the building to make their order, while the cook served the meals to occupants waiting in their car. Fast forward seventy years: Today, virtually every American fast-food chain restaurant relies on the “drive-thru window format to service busy commuters arriving in their motor vehicles.

Royce Hailey, patriarch of the Pig Stands clan and father to Richard, was one of the pioneers. Inspired by the same spirit of pluck and entrepreneurship that made the Pig Stands an American success story, he started his career as a Dallas carhop at age thirteen. In 1930, he leaped up onto his first automobile running board and never looked back. When he hopped off twenty-five years later, he found himself president of the company. By the dawn of the 1960s, he led the company to sell off all of the out-of-state stands and concentrate solely on the Texas locations. In 1975, he became sole owner of the company.

But a knack for business and people skills was only part of his legend. As popular restaurant history tells the tale, the visionary Hailey “invented” the chicken-fried steak sandwich during the 1930s. Not satisfied with one culinary creation to his credit, he also helped to create the super-sized slice of grilled bread most natives of the Alamo city know and love as “Texas Toast” (according to many food historians, the Pig Stands are also credited with creating fried onion rings during the heyday of the 1920s).

Son Richard purchased all interest to the Pig Stands company in 1983 and forged ahead with the tradition of serving American comfort food to a public still in love with their automobile and the freedom it affords. “Today, diners can still get an over sized piece of Texas Toast, giant onion rings, a milkshake, and a tasty Pig Sandwich, he says. “The best part is that we still sell the same Pig Sandwich made the same way that is was made so many years ago.

Along the great American roadsides, it seems that the more things change … the more they stay the same. For fans of the “World’s First Drive-in Restaurant, there’s still nothing that compares with dining on a tasty Pig Sandwich and a bottle of Dr Pepper while seated comfortably in America’s favorite dining room: the front seat of a car.

Tydol Flying A Gasoline Uniform Patch, Circa 1940s

During World War II, Allen P. Bell was transferred to the Air Base in Kingman, Arizona to work his tour of duty as an aircraft mechanic. On his 21st birthday he stepped off the train, walked down old Route 66 a ways, and observed the desolation. “What is this God forsaken place? he asked himself. He made his mind up right then and there that once discharged from the Air Corps., he wouldn’t return. Operating a service station—much less living there—was the farthest thought from his mind.

Nevertheless, the two-lane twist of concrete designated Highway 66 had other plans in store. When the war finally ended, Bell entered the job market and discovered that aircraft mechanics weren’t in very high demand. Stuck in the desert without prospects, he decided to try his luck at automotive repair.

Unfortunately, the life of a grease monkey proved to be unfulfilling. To make matters worse, the pay was meager. About that time, the good fortune of the highway smiled his way and presented itself in the form of an idea: “Why not manage a filling station? After all, gasoline rationing was finally over and Americans were taking to road in record numbers. Automobiles would always need fuel and there were was plenty of room for stations attendants that knew how to treat customers right.

At the same time, Bell figured he could take in a little mechanical work on the side, choosing only jobs he wanted. “I was never into overhauls and all that nuts and bolts stuff, explains Bell. A few years of tearing down and reassembling aircraft engines with his arms up to the elbows deep in grease cured him of that. The standard filling station routine of repairing flat tires, replacing broken fan belts, and tuning the occasional carburetor would be sufficient.

Under the Tutelage of Whiting Brothers

The year was 1947 when Al Bell got hooked up with a busy Whiting Brothers station down in the desert town of McConnico, right along the alignment of the old road. It pumped out a fair amount of gallons, but not enough for the enterprising Bell. At the end of nine months, he mastered the basics of managing a station and decided to move on. He was soon responsible for running a Mobil station on the Walapai Indian Reservation in Peach Springs (in a leasing arrangement).

Behind the station, a couple of roadside tourist cabins provided Bell with a little extra income from travelers, and later—trouble. One day, his young son Bob Boze was playing where he wasn’t supposed to and got his hand tangled in the maid’s washing machine wringer! Without proper emergency medical facilities in town, Bell loaded him in the truck and raced all the way to Kingman to the nearest doctor. Luckily, his arm was saved.

Later, the accident caused Bell to reconsider his remote location—and career—at the Flying Red Horse outpost. Concluding that safety was more important than pumping petroleum, he decided it would be best for the family to move back to Kingman. But, homesick for what he thought he was missing in the east (and recalling the youthful proclamation he made only a few short years ago) he announced to the family that he was moving the entire clan back to Swea City, Iowa. There, he had a lucrative offer to operate a brand new Phillips 66 station.

Bell Returns to the Desert

Far from the road that first sustained him, it took more than half a decade for Bell to realize that his fortunes didn’t lie in the heartland. Six years of icy winters and plowing of snow took their toll. What’s more, his wife Lilly had lost two babies in the interim—coloring the surroundings with unhappy memories. With her ongoing problems with asthma, Al decided it was time to hit the road again. They would pack up and head west, back to the desert cauldron that Bob Bell swore he would never return to.

Flying A Gasoline Advertisement, Circa 1960s

And so, like so many others seeking a new life at the end of America’s two-lane rainbow, they packed their vehicle full with all of their belongings and pointed the car west. Arizona was their final destination and would be their new home … this time for good. Al Bell didn’t know it at the time, but a prominent refueling assignment in Kingman—right along Highway 66—was waiting for his return.

Once settled in Arizona, the highway called Bell to action with a combination of circumstances. It all started to fall into place when he was visiting a friend that ran the flashy Flying A station up on 14th Street. Bell was complimenting his fellow station man on the great setup when the proprietor jokingly asked if he wanted to buy it. For a second, Bell imagined himself pumping fuel under the glow of that fantastic sign out front and the hoardes of customers he could win over with his own brand of service. For the time being, he suppressed his excitement and shrugged off the inquiry.

A short while later, a company representative from the Tidewater Oil Company began to telephone Bell at home, each call bringing with it a progressively better offer to take over the station. When the deal finally got so good that he couldn’t refuse, he agreed. With his experience and personal insight on how to run a refueling business, he was primed and ready to take the reigns of super service station with one goal in mind: to someday, pull in over $100 per day from the rush of motorists plying the two-lane.

The Las Vegas of Gas Stations

With that monstrous marquee, it would be easy. A double-sided, two-hundred and nine bulb show stopping extravaganza featuring a swooping arrow lit with sequential flashers—there wasn’t another sign like it along the entire length of the Will Rogers Highway. Mounted below its dual, electrified arrows, blazing tubes of neon branded the ultimate selling point motorist’s brain: “Jugs Iced Free! In an era when Thermadore air coolers served as automotive air conditioning and the words “cooled by refrigeration sent chills up and down one’s spine, it was the perfect slogan to attract travelers inebriated by Arizona’s desert heat.

Luckily, part of the arrangement Bell made with the refiner was the cover the electric bill. It was a good deal, since the three story signpost sucked up more than $150 worth of juice in one month! From Memorial Day until the end of September, it shone without rest. Driving in from the outskirts of Kingman on a hot summer’s night—it appeared like a roadside apparition, one that belonged more on the Las Vegas strip than in the quiet community of Hilltop. Motorists were attracted to the Flying A Service Station as if Al Bell had installed a huge electromagnet and hidden it inside one of his garage bays. Vacationers, snowbirds, outlaws, truck drivers, and those in search of a new life out west were drawn in and stopped to get gas. During the summer, hundreds of cars streamed in for service, many coasting on fumes.

To the motorist, it was like entering the promised land of petroleum: Their were eight lanes and four service islands—each equipped with three gasoline dispensers. When a car pulled in, four young men dressed in white cotton overalls with their names embroidered on the breast pocket attacked the cars simultaneously. The first boy in bow tie asked the rehearsed line “Can I fill it with 100 plus Octane? The second lad proceeded to wash all of the windows—the front windows, the side windows, the back windows—everything made of glass! Meanwhile, the third service attendant rushed to check the air pressure in all of the tires while a fourth pump jockey began checking the oil level under the hood.

California Bound and Jugs Iced Free

As the height of the American service ethic and gas station style was being played out on the concrete, Bell’s son, Bob (fully recovered from his wringer accident and an active little leaguer) sprinted to the drivers side window and asked the burning question that was on everyone’s mind: “Got any jugs you want iced? A heavy-duty York ice machine cranked out the precious cubes at the rate of 450 pounds a day, providing steady work for the younger Bell and a means to save money from tips. He was only nine years old when he began toting the frozen crystals to the customers and worked the Flying A every season until he was out of high school.

Bob Boze Bell recalls those busy days with fondness: “What was amazing about working at the station was that everybody in the 50′s and 60′s was bound for California. Many thought it was the promised land out there—you could see it in their eyes. They would come out of their cars—and it would be July in Kingman with a temperature of 103 degrees outside—and they’d ask how far it was to California! I’d say about 60 miles. They’d say: Oh, thank God! Well, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that 60 miles away was California, all right—Needles, California, the hottest place on the planet Earth, next to Death Valley, which was their next stop after Needles! Sometimes, I wished I could be there with them just to see the look on their faces when they crossed the border and realized it was 122 degrees outside!

Working for tips from the customers he replenished with ice, Bob spent most of his childhood at the Flying A. Curiously enough, the pocket change paled in comparison to the goodies he picked up by other means. It seemed that every other day another customer would ask if he could trade gas for merchandise. “We’re out of money and we gotta’ make it to California they all said. Of course, their cars were packed with personal belongings—items that suddenly became less important than a gallon of gas.

Bob’s dad was sympathetic to their plight and always found something he could use in exchange for a tankful. And more often than not, the traded items ended up in the hands of an appreciative ice-boy! The great highway brought in more stuff than could ever be imagined, including a set of World War II binoculars, cameras, a Bowie knife, drums, fishing poles … everything a boy loved. Ironically, the trunks of the passing automobiles became an extension of the junior Bell’s toy box.

Real Adventures in Pumping Gasoline

Still, the collection of merchandise was just a minor benefit of working the station. There was nothing to compare with the real-life adventures that were played out daily at the Flying A. Who needed television?

One afternoon, an actual police chase passed right out front. Bob was pumping gas at the time when he heard sirens approaching. He stood there with the filler nozzle in hand, watching the pursuit in progress. The cop in the cruiser, Floyd Cisney, was his little league coach and a part-time driver in the Kingman demolition derby! Cisney pulled up alongside the speeding car, passed it, and turned—forcing both vehicles from the road. “That part of Route 66 was a bottle-neck for stolen cars, explains Bell. “Cisney held the record for nabbing stolen autos with 5,000 arrests to his credit … God—it was exciting!

During a more serious brush with a criminal, Bob’s best friend lost his dad in a shoot-out. Sheriff Tarr was killed—shot in the stomach—at his inspection station on Highway 93, north of town. As Bell tells it, “There were some crazy kids who stole a car and were pulled over. Tarr asked them to empty their trunk and a gun was produced. He told them to give it up but they shot first. It was written up in Life magazine as a wild west shoot-out! During those three months of summer, the area around the Flying A was a wild place ! The roadside escapades had such an influence on Bob Bell that after his first year of work, he bought a book on the true west with his saved tip money. He became hooked on the excitement, and decided to make the subject his life’s work as an artist.

Hollywood Comes to Call

Even during slow times something interesting was always going on around the station. On a cold winter’s day in ‘61, Bob and his dad were sitting next door in the Tideway Cafe when a couple of curious characters pulled up in the lot. When the duo got out of their car, it was obvious to everyone that they were wearing beanies. They began acting strange, gazing around and holding up their hands to make a small frame—just like Hollywood directors do when they were scouting a good location for a movie. “I know they’re from Hollywood piped the younger Bell. “I just know it!

Al went outside to get the scoop and returned, informing everyone that they loved the layout of the station, the pumps, and most of al—the “Jugs Iced Free sign. They wanted to put the Flying A Service Station in pictures! A short while later, a flick starring Cornell Wilde called Edge of Eternity debuted in theaters. According to Bell, “It was a real B movie about a death at the Grand Canyon, a real time capsule of the Kingman area The station scene was shown on screen for a total of thirty seconds, showcasing the flashing ice sign, the station, and the Tideway Cafe.

Harry Tindle ran the attached Tideway in cooperation with the Bells. It was a classic diner without tables, just fourteen stools around a counter where people would sit and eat. “We worked together explains Bell. “Somebody would come in and ask where they could get a good sandwich and I would say right next door. Somebody would ask Harry where they could get a tire fixed and he would say right next door! You gotta’ work together … we ran a real good business there.

But it was more than just hype. Both operations provided the kind of service customers liked. “I’ll never forget the breakfast brags the elder Bell. “Boy … he had a grill right in front where you could sit and watch him cook. He was sharp! Bacon and eggs, hash browns, toast, coffee—all for one buck! With all the motels in the area and people always in a hurry, business was brisk—enough to afford Kindle a pink Cadillac and power boat! They were often parked nearby, potent reminders of an American dream come true.

Reaching the Goal of High Volume

In 1959, Al Bell grabbed the brass ring for himself when he reached his earlier goal of earning $100 per day. Unfortunately, the success proved to be a double-edged sword. When Tidewater Oil took notice of his substantial receipts, an inevitable ultimatum came from corporate headquarters: they wanted to re negotiate a part of his lease in an attempt to siphon off more of the profits. According to Bell, the refiner informed him that he was “makin’ too much money!

When the talk of a rent hike elevated into a full-blown fighting match—Bell walked, taking his experience, know-how, and service station savvy right along with him. The luck of the highway was still with him, however: the Phillips Petroleum Company was opening a new refueling business in the Kingman area and they wanted him to man the pumps! Another operator took over the circuit breakers at the Flying A Service Station and—not surprisingly—it “went successfully downhill.

Eventually, Phillips Petroleum bought out the Associated Flying A stations in the west and the winged trademark slowly faded into obscurity. But that wasn’t really important. The sixties were more than half over, the country was undergoing a radical change, and Al Bell was getting out of the gas station business. His legs were giving him problems and his doctor advised that he take a load off. Running a gas station was no longer as easy as it used to be. It would never be again.

A Way of Life is Bypassed

When the implementation of major freeways rerouted most of the traffic around the old businesses in Kingman, the classic pumping venues were relieved of their status as highway havens. The great river of automobiles once flowing along Route 66 was reduced to a trickle, and there just weren’t enough customers to keep all of the businesses profitable. As a result, many closed. Others transformed themselves to accommodate the changing business.

With the advocacy of Ladybird Johnson’s “highway beautification program, it didn’t take long for the “Jugs Iced Free sign to be dismantled. Sadly, no one seemed to mind that a colorful piece of Kingman’s roadside history was being destroyed. After the twelve gas pumps and other evidence of refueling were removed, a business selling pottery and concrete bird baths occupied the shell of the former superstation. The Tideway Cafe’s great grub, the snappy full service attendants, the gleaming rest rooms, the young little-leaguer running out to the cars, visions of a pink Cadillac, and tons of complimentary ice cubes had evaporated in the searing heat of the Arizona desert. The memories of Al Bell’s Flying A Service Station had faded fast, as transitory as the ripples in the pools of rain water collected in the decorative basins for sale along the road.

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/bobs-big-boy-burger/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Witzel-Eats/~3/s8bABP1HEag/ http://michaelwitzel.com/wordpress/barbecue-road-trip-book/#comments Sat, 11 Oct 2008 02:18:16 +0000 Michael Witzel http://michaelwitzel.com/wordpress/?p=353 Barbecue Road Trip:
Recipes, Restaurants, & Pitmasters
from America’s Great Barbecue Regions

by Michael Karl Witzel

With its fervent aficionados, traditions, and wildly varying regional styles—each with its passionate advocates—barbecue is much more than a way of cooking meat: It’s a cultural ritual.

Barbecue Roadtrip, Published by Voyageur Press

A history as entertaining as it is informative, this book is the first to explore American barbecue’s regional roots. Nationally renowned food commentator Mike Witzel takes readers on an eye-opening (and mouth-watering) tour of the histories, techniques, culture, competitions, traditional side dishes, and classic hot spots associated with barbecue’s four major regionally based styles.

With hundreds of photographs and illustrations, print ads, signage, and more, this account offers a rich picture of American barbecue in Texas, North Carolina, Memphis, and Kansas City (home to at least 100 barbecue restaurants and the world’s largest annual barbeque contest). Pork or beef, sweet or spicy, marinated or rubbed, basted or slathered in sauce, cooked slowly or seared, over coal or wood chips, here are the styles from which all American barbecue is derived, in all their rich flavor and folklore.

For those who wish to do further research, the book provides a listing of top barbecue joints in all 50 states.

• Hardcover: 192 pages
• Publisher: Voyageur Press (October 15, 2008)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0760327521
• ISBN-13: 978-076032752

√ Learn more about Barbecue Road Trip at the official web site

Barbecue Links by Region:

Famous Texas BBQ Joint
http://www.saltlickbbq.com/

North Carolina Barbecue Trail
http://www.ncbbqsociety.com/trail.html

The Lowdown on Kansas City
http://www.experiencekc.com/barbeque.html

Memphis Barbecue History
http://www.southernfoodways.com/oral_history/tnbbq/M00_index.shtml

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

Today, the remnants of a once booming mineral water business can still be seen in the town of Mineral Wells, Texas. Originally built as a seven-story luxury resort, the Crazy Hotel is now a retirement home; the Milling Sanitarium a VFW hall, and the towering Baker Hotel—once the playground of screen stars, crooners, and oilmen—sits empty, a silent reminder of the times when the healing waters flowed.

The Baker Hotel, Mineral Wells

When James Lynch arrived on this site in 1877, there was little indication that this area would one day become a magnet for visitors. Although the valley was beautiful and the soil looked productive, well digging wouldn’t release water from the earth. Stuck with eighty acres, the Lynch clan was forced to haul up water from the Brazos river. After three hard years of toting, a traveling well-driller arrived in town and struck a deal to sink a hole. But to everyone’s chagrin, the dig unearthed a foul smelling liquid!

Necessity forced the family to overcome their aversion to the water and one by one they drank. After feeling no ill effects, they deemed it safe. Weeks later, something strange happened: the rheumatism suffered by Mrs. Lynch had vanished! After word of the cure spread, throngs of health-seekers arrived at the farm. When the hundreds turned to thousands, Lynch drilled more wells and then built a town.

Eventually, the stampede caught the attention of speculators, including a colorful character known as “Uncle Billy Wiggins. He purchased his own parcel of land and proceeded to cash in on the medicinal waters. According to town lore, a woman who was convalescing at the local sanitarium spent her days under the shade trees surrounding the well, sipping its effluent nectar. Resident juveniles nicknamed her the “crazy woman and after she left town cured of mental distress, the curative spring assumed the “Crazy Well name. Wiggins took advantage of the incident and added a pavilion and bottling plant.

In 1907, Sidney Webb purchased the Crazy Water Company from Wiggins, along with the four other wells. He went on to erect the town’s first luxury hotel, appointing it with modern bathrooms, elevators, telephones, and convenient access to the ever-popular mineral water drinking pavilion.

Inside the pavilion stood an elaborate bar that boasted four different strengths of Crazy Water. After filling up with drink, visitors could take their excercise on the “Fat Man’s Reducer. This early version of the Stairmaster consisted of 1,000 wooden steps that wound up East Mountain. From a vantage point below, locals made a sport of spotting novices: The poor souls who dared ascend the stairs after over-indulging in Crazy Water often turned an about-face to beat a hasty retreat to the nearest toilet!

Tragedy struck in 1925 when the hotel and entire downtown block was snuffed out by fire. One year later, Dallas businessmen Carr and Hal Collins stepped in to resurrect the Crazy and spent a million dollars to restore it. Ironically, the seven-story beauty they constructed prompted the locals to take aim at out-of-town investors. Determined to wrestle back control of their water rights, local citizens formed a committee to clear the way for an even more elaborate structure. Aided by reputable hotel magnate T. B. Baker, the new Baker Hotel would boast fourteen stories and four-hundred rooms!

Suddenly, the competition for tourists became an all-out war. To counter their lavish competitor, the proprietors of the Crazy Hotel installed a giant “Welcome to Mineral Wells, Home of Crazy sign at each traffic access to town. On the rooftop, a gargantuan electric billboard was installed that flashed the Crazy name far and wide. Inebriated by the battle, many of the local shop owners incorporated the word into their names. By the the end of the twenties, a plethora of “Crazy businesses appeared, including the Crazy Laundry, Crazy Drugstore, Crazy Theatre, Crazy Drugstore, and Crazy Beauty Shop!

Crazy Sign, Mineral Wells, Texas

After the stock market crash, Carr embarked on a campaign to market the snowy white powder that remained after Crazy “water evaporated. Healing packets filled with these Crazy Water Crystals could be easily shipped everywhere and were convenient. Hal Collins began extolling the crystals’ virtues on “One Man’s Opinion, a live radio show broadcast from the Crazy Hotel. A wry mix of humor, country-wisdom, music, and product testimonials, the show stirred up sales of three-million dollars a year!

Unfortunately, principals at the Food and Drug Administration were listening in too. Suddenly, all unwarranted health claims had to be removed from radio spots and packaging. With extreme prejudice, the Collins brothers complied, removing the bromide that claimed the crystalline powder was useful in the treatment of “rheumatism, functional stomach diseases, cystitis, diabetes, and Bright’s disease.

One year later, Crazy Water Crystals made a surprise appearance at Chicago’s Century of Progress Exposition. Hal Collins was in attendance and was drawn to a prominent display entitled the “Chamber of Horrors. Here, all of the medicinal cures that resulted in blindness, hair loss, and even death were on display. To his surprise, a green-and-white box of Crazy Water Crystals was neatly tucked in among the profane! To make matters worse, photographs showed the Mineral Wells hotel and bottling plant!

Collins was aghast at what he saw and immediately had the Crazy Water Crystals removed from the exhibit. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. Sometime later, the company was forced to add a warning label of precautionary advice that read: “Not to be used when abdominal pain (stomach-ache, cramps, colic), nausea, vomiting, or other symptoms of appendicitis are present. Continual use of any laxative may develop a systemic dependence on same. Crazy Water was on its way out.

Despite the controversy that surfaced over the crystals efficacy, Collins never wavered in his loyalty. When he sold off the hotel and mineral water rights in 1947, he reserved a large cache of the crystals for himself. Every day for the next thirty-three years, he religiously consumed his daily dose. He passed away at the respectable age of eighty-seven, a valid example of the healthful benefits of Crazy Water.

Nevertheless, his final testimony went unrecognized. By the fifties, the heyday of healing waters in America—and Texas—had concluded. Most of the grand temples that were erected to celebrate the curative powers of mineral water had closed their doors and ceased operating. By 1958, the animated electric sign that once welcomed the throngs of visitors to Mineral Wells and the home of Crazy Water was torn down. Sold for scrap, it spent the last of its days among the rubble of a Dallas junkyard.