Little Hamburgers

It’d be a lie to say that I’m a connoisseur of fine foods and dining. My tastes turn more toward items that are unhealthy. Fast food is my bane, and my cholesterol levels and waistline are evidence of that statement. Still, I love that kind of eating. Throughout my life, I’ve given into the temptations of little hamburgers.

Three joints come to mind anytime I discuss my addiction to fast food during the early years—Blue Circle, Jiffy, and Krystal. All three places served those steaming little hamburgers. A squirt of mustard, wad of onions, and dill pickle meshed with the square, thin patty on a bun that was soggy from steam and grease. On trips to downtown, Mother would sometimes take us to the Blue Circle off Gay Street, and there my brothers and I sat and downed a few burgers along with an order of fries. Back then, the gut bombs didn’t stay with us long as Mother marched us from one end of Gay Street to the other and then down to Henley Street and back.

In high school our preference for buying small burgers was the Jiffy. The establishment we frequented was on Western Avenue in West Haven. It sat across the highway from the Cas Walker store. The night would begin with several circuits that began at the Copper Kettle and stretched to the Jiffy. We’d pull in an spend one buck for enough food and drink to keep us going for the rest of the evening. With a bit of luck, we sometimes encountered a carload of girls with whom we could flirt. Of course, none of us was brave enough to do more than just talk. Then we’d be off to complete another lap of nightly cruising.

Small hamburgers were never better than when my brothers and I were in our twenties and thirties. By then, my older brother Dal had moved to Nashville, but when he and his wife Brenda came home for a visit, a run for food was a sure bet. The evenings always started with hours of talk around the kitchen table at Mother’s house. By midnight, the wives had retired, but the three of us were still going strong. We all smoked like chimneys back then, and the kitchen would be so filled with smoke that a haze hung from the ceiling and the smell of stale tobacco covered our bodies.

Eventually, one of us would call “road trip,” and with that we packed ourselves into the car and drove to the Clinton Highway Krystal. Upon our return we emptied the contents of our bags. As many as three dozen hamburgers with orders of French fries were lined up across the table. We dug in and feasted until the “sliders” were gone or we were full. Those little pearls always lay heavy in our stomachs, and before long, all turned in for the night.

I know how unhealthy those little heart attacks in boxes are. My health is more of a concern to me, and I try to be good. Yet, sometimes a hunger from deep down starts, and no matter how strong my willpower might be, I succumb to the call. I know the next day will be filled with regret as my digestive system rebels against the foul food, but in the moment, the thoughts of a good Krystal conquer even the most logical thoughts.

I sinned again last night. Here in Nashville I drove to Krystal and grabbed a few hamburgers. Next, I drove back to the motel room and devoured them. The night was spent in gastric distress, but sometimes the urge is outweighs the punishment.