Ode to a Double Double

The anticipation had been building for weeks. Its been two years since my last one, two long years.

You don’t really think about not having one, not being able to have one AT ALL when there’s just no way to get one and the nearest is at least an 8 hour drive south. Every once in a while you think about not being able to just go to the nearest restaurant and have one whenever you want and the sheer injustice of it all gets the better of you.

So you go online to the web site and send off a nicely worded request to please “GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER and open up a store in Portland. It’s about time. Despite what you might have heard, not everyone is a tree-hugging, granola and bark eating vegetarian. After all, the local chain Burgerville seems to do okay and their burgers suck, SUCK like a two-dollar whore on 82nd. You should open one on the east side, say on Sunnyside would be great, but I’d settle for the east side of Beaverton, if need be. The drive would be worth it.”

The thought of wrapping my hands around one and taking that first, delicious bite would pop into my head with increasing frequency. At first it was just once a month or so as Sally would update me on the latest airline ticket price or car rental research she was doing. But, as the travel date neared, and the details of our travel were solidified, confirmed and paid for, it became once a week, until, finally, last week, it was at least once a day. More than that as I talked with my co-workers.

I would tell them I was jonesin’ pretty hard core for one and those who have been to California or lived there would nod their head sagely. At one point in my last hour at work on Friday, I sparked a somewhat heated, but still friendly, discussion about what restaurants made good ones. One guy I didn’t know very well had the temerity to suggest that they weren’t very good, but his was not the dominant opinion of the group, and he was mostly ignored from then on.

We landed in Long Beach at half past noon on Saturday. As I walked off the plane onto the tarmac, I could sense at a deep level that I was smack dab in the middle of one of the strongest concentrations of such restaurants in the south land. Their presence was all around me. I felt the pull of grilled onions and fried potatoes turning me this way and that. If I wanted to, I could close my eyes and point in the direction of the nearest with unerring accuracy, but that would have been weird and as I was already wearing a kilt for comfortable travel, I just didn’t need the attention.

Even though I was finally deep in the territory and could possess one within an hour, if need be, I would still have to wait a couple of days. My wild, animal side was screaming to get in the rental car and drive as fast as possible to the nearest restaurant, but my civilized, rational side was thinking of the others and knew that Sally and Ian would be less than thrilled to be stranded at the Long Beach airport while I drive wildly about looking for one. The thought of their very own wouldn’t be enough to make them forget the experience of standing at the curb of an airport that makes the one in Burbank look stylish, however quickly I would have returned (which would have been pretty damn quickly, let me tell you).

We had plans to have dinner with a high school friend of Sally’s so Saturday was a wash. Yesterday was also shot to hell as we still needed to drive south and, on the way, stop off and see Matt at his store. We knew that we could not go far if we wanted to have lunch with him, so something in the strip mall would have to suffice. The resulting beef and chicken teriyaki bowl was certainly delicious, and I enjoyed it for what it was, but, really, I can get teriyaki in Portland.

I didn’t get one last night because we discussed getting food as we all floated in the resort pool and I was clearly distracted by my brain as it switched from Active Work Mode to Passive Vacation Mode RIGHT before Sally suggested we drive into the village and see what wasn’t too crowded. By the time I realized what had happened, I was halfway through a tender and flaky swordfish fillet at Vera Cruz Fish House.

So today, Monday, would be it. We headed out an hour before noon to avoid the lunch crowd. As I parked the car next to the drive thru lane, my sense of anticipation peaked. I stepped out of the car and my nose was filled with the wondrous bouquet of grilled onions and frying potatoes wafting from the open drive thru window. Our grins stretched from ear to ear as we fairly danced into the dining area. Arriving as we did at quarter past the hour, the line was only a few patrons deep and I knew my long drought would soon be over.

Finally it was my turn to order and the words fell from my lips without the need for forethought, I had said them so many times before.

“I’ll have a Double-Double with grilled onions, fries, and a soda.”

Music to my ears. I gave the kid in the white shirt and white paper hat Sally and Ian’s order and went to sit with them as we waited for our our number to be called. I watched the familiar scene of the fry cook scooping golden brown fries into paper boats. He wasn’t dumping the fries into a large white towel as in years past. I wondered aloud if the Health Department put a stop to it. If so, yet another practice distinctive to a beloved restaurant has been killed in favor of public safety and the creeping growth of sterile conformity. Maybe not though. Perhaps the chain itself was adapting to advances in fast food preparation techniques and realized significant savings in the laundry bill.

No matter. I could feel my arteries throb in fearful anticipation as the servers called out each successive number towards ours. At last, we were summoned and I fairly leaped out of my seat to retrieve our delicacies.

There it was, my delicious, flavorful Double-Double nestled snug in its wax paper wrapper, melted cheese oozing out from under the bun, together with its companions in a neat row next to two full boats of hot and crispy fries.

“There you go, sweetie,” Sally said with a smile.

I pulled my burger from the basket and took a lingering sniff of the melted cheese, translucent grilled onions and grilled meat, filling my nose with the aroma, knowing that I needed to imprint the memory of the burger’s bouquet on my brain as much as I can in anticipation of the next long drought away from its burger perfection. I took a bite and smiled in contentment as the distinctive taste combination of the cheese, onions, thousand island dressing and meat combined to hit my taste buds with tasty, tasty joy.

It looks to be a great week.