Learning From White Castle by Dave Kim

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From August 13 to 16, 2010, I ate at White Castle #100034 on 781 Metropolitan Avenue in East Williamsburg 11 times. I live around the corner from the restaurant and use it to guide friends to my apartment all the time (“pass the White Castle, make a right”), but have never actually eaten there prior to this undertaking. Let’s make it clear right now that this is not some Super Size Me–inspired stunt. I am not the leader of some angry crusade against the American hamburger industry or an enemy of the White Castle company. I do happen to be a vegetarian, nine years and counting, and like most fast food establishments in this country White Castle doesn’t really cater to diners like me. I am not bitter about this. WC and I have happily coexisted on opposite blocks for over two years. But as part of a recent effort to explore neighborhood businesses I know nothing about, I decided to spend a few days recording and analyzing life in my local chain restaurant. Here are some observations.  1:31 p.m. 8/13/10. How White Castle Explains Capitalism.  Trip One. As expected, there isn’t much for the non-carnivorous to eat here. French fries and a “small” soft drink (21 ounces!) cost me a reasonable $3.46 with tax, and, according to the city-sanctioned calorie counts next to the prices, will provide 630 kcal (fries are 390; Coke, 240). Drink refills are free.  Perusing the menu more carefully brings up some puzzling facts. The restaurant offers seven “Saver Sack” meal options, which get you two or three tiny White Castle burgers, depending on the fixings, plus fries and a soft drink for $2.99 ($3.26 with tax). Solid mathematical deduction thereby shows that it is cheaper to buy three hamburgers, fries, and a drink than just fries and a drink. Now I’m well aware that in a market economy, prices don’t have much to do with the actual costs of the goods and are set by subjective value judgment. Pre-arranged deals attract customers and increase overall sales even when sold at a discount. But I’ve already bought my fries and drink. I feel cheated. Isn’t WC discouraging à la carte selection here (individuality; the power to choose; uh, freedom) in favor of imposed order? Isn’t it punishing vegetarians by forcing them to order meat if they want to be economical? Or is WC just the consumer-friendly governing body that subsidizes value packages—and I’m just the clueless newbie?  I walk up to the young woman who took my order, Employee #4366, and ask her about the price difference. She straightens the visor on her mustard-brown cornrows. It’s a limited-time offer, I am told. She used to point out the Saver Sacks when customers tried to order side items separately, but more often than not they got snippy with her or didn’t care. “People don’t like people telling them what to do,” Ms. 4366 says. “The deals are there if you want. If you don’t, you have to pay.”  7:12 p.m. 8/13/10. How White Castle Explains Aesthetics.  Be advised that the interior of White Castle #100034 feels a little cramped, with its low ceilings, back-to-back booths, and the giant, floor-to-ceiling island where customers crowd to fill their soft drinks and squirt-pump their ketchup. It is not a welcoming dining space. The kitchen and staff areas are encased in bulletproof glass. Fluorescent lights hum above you, uniform and pallid and wearying on the eye. You sit on benches made of lacquered plywood and consume your onion rings ($1.72, 340 kcal) on melamine tables the color of muggy summer skies, tables that are pretty much always covered with other people’s ketchup or little archipelagos of chopped onion. It is meat-locker cold in here. The bathrooms are also cordoned off by bulletproof glass and you have to gesture (through more glass) at someone in the kitchen to buzz you in, except the men’s is occupied by someone who must be trying to pass a cement block or something, and the women’s, predictably, has a line. None of these gripes is a deal-breaker but White Castle turns out not to be the kind of place where you’d want to hang out more than thirteen minutes, the average time Americans spend in casual restaurants, and no chipper in-store ads or nostalgic diner tiles are going to change that. But this is the point: nobody wants you to stick around. Out of the eleven occasions I ate at WC, only once was I asked “to stay or to go?” and given a meal tray; every other time my food came in a paper or plastic sack.  The word “crave” is everywhere—customers are called Cravers, the menu subdivisions are Sandwich Cravings, Drink Cravings, etc.—and cravings are immediate, short-lived. You satisfy them and then they’re gone. Everything about the restaurant, from the in-one-way-out-the-other floor plan to the nonstop beeping from various kitchen appliances to the quick-assembly burger casings, suggests temporality, a system that functions on expedition and disposal. This is not a bad thing. Haters might argue that WC hurries customers so that they don’t sit and think about what their food actually tastes like, or so they’ll get out and make room for more diners. But I see the Don’t Dawdle protocol as a kind of candidness. You are not being lied to here. The food is made quickly, consumed quickly, and no one is telling you otherwise. In a city full of businesses that disguise no-star food with three-star presentation and prices, where servers tell you to “take your time” and then drop the check in your lap before you’ve finished eating, where wait times are way disproportionate to quality, it’s refreshing to be in a place where the aura of the food—fast food—more or less matches the space in which it’s meant to be consumed. Buy, eat, get on with your life.  9:34 p.m. 8/13/10. How White Castle Explains Pedagogy.  Did you know that on the bottom of every White Castle casing (which is used for a number of food items, not just burgers) is a fun factoid or clever quip? Some are just dry bits of trivia: “White Castle patented its unique five-hole Slyder® in 1954.” Others resemble Buddhist koans: “White Castle is open after dark. But why is it called after dark when it’s really after light?” There are also useful bits of advice: “A bed of onions is perfect for cooking White Castle burgers, but we don’t recommend sleeping on them.” Collect them all!  9:40 p.m. 8/13/10. How White Castle Explains Charisma.  This evening, three men are conspiring in a booth. One of them, whom I’ll call Purple Hat, is hoping to get the phone number of one of the WC workers. His heavyset friend, White Shirt, is coaching him. The Third Man mostly just laughs and says nothing.  White Shirt: I’m about to Akon ya ass. Imma beat ya ass till you start screaming like you recording a new album. Go up there and talk to her.  Purple Hat: I’m eating.  White Shirt: [Loudly; the girl can hear him.] She right there! Go!  Purple Hat: Aight.  Purple Hat stands up and walks over to the registers. White Shirt and Third Man cheer him on and then White Shirt guffaws.  White Shirt: Get that burger outcha hand! Are you still chewing?  Purple Hat: [To Girl.] Excuse me? Excuse me?  White Shirt: I’m sorry, miss. He don’t mean no disrespect. Yo, put the burger down!