Every town has a spot. It serves ice cream, hot dogs—sometimes chili fries, though here in Canada, that tends to be poutine.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: that sounds like a fast-food place. And yes, it is. But it’s a subgenre I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t even know what to call these joints, but I know what you’re thinking—you’re probably thinking Dairy Queen. And you’d be right. Most of the time, these places are Dairy Queens. But sometimes, they’re not.
Sometimes, they have picnic benches out front. Sometimes, roller-skating teenage girls take your order, gliding up to your window, jotting it all down, then returning with a tray they perch by your door.
On Saturdays, you get the old muscle cars, engines revving, horsepower on display. Wait a little longer, and a younger crowd rolls in—the hot hatchbacks, the Ford Fiestas and Honda Civics. The ones who’ve watched a little too much Fast & Furious.
What I love about these places is the bizarre architecture—the kind you see nowhere else. Huge wraparound windows, buildings held up by thin little posts, lights blazing from every corner.
I never know what these places are called. I mean, yeah, fast food—but what do you call this subgenre?
The burgers always taste different. The ice cream is extra soft. And if you listen closely, you can almost hear the music—wow… wow…—echoing from the cars.
Photo credit: Thomas Jordan
