Sync

LITTLE ROCK — “Get on down to The Box,” qualified as a popular admonition when I was growing up. Or directions. I remember adults talking about these great burgers — burgers that defied ’80s health-food logic.

Now I keep hearing these things about The Band Box on South Main Street in Little Rock — its ancient past just about lost in antiquity. Some folks outside Arkansas know the place by its full name because of its connection to Bill Clinton. In 1992, journalists descended on Little Rock to dig up anything they could about the up-and-coming presidential contender, and one thing they discovered about the Arkansas governor was that he really loved his food, including the little building with the burgers near the Governor’s Mansion.

The out-of-towners called it The Band Box. Around here, though, it’s always just been The Box.

I drifted away from the place as a grown-up. But then I fell into writing about travel and food for a living, and I put it on my list of places I wanted to share with the world. Somehow, I kept missing it.

Then in January, word came that USA Drug bought a block of South Main Street between 16th and 17th streets — The Box block — and were going to level the whole damn thing and build one of those spankin’ new stores. I knew the clock was ticking, and, yes, I finally made it back to The Box — with eight days to go before this greasy Little Rock landmark does the unthinkable — moves. The place has been at this location since 1948 and ownership has changed hands a time or two. Currently, the owner is Kelly Joiner, who plans to keep the burger joint alive in its new location.

The routine at The Box has changed as little as the menu. When you walk in, you’re more or less greeted by the kitchen, separated from customers by a short bar. You always say “hi” or “hello,” unless you want to be chided by one of the buxom women behind the low counter. If you’re in the know, you say hello to Arthur on the griddle. Then find yourself a seat in the windowless dining room or sit at the bar.

This last visit (to this location) I sat at the bar. One of the ladies pulled out her ticket book and gestured at the wall with her head, “Menu’s there, hon.” I knew what I wanted, and only looked at the wall after she had torn off the ticket and slapped it on the counter across from my seat.

The kitchen was impossible. Somehow, five people and a child kept things rolling in what appeared to be a 12-foot-by-12-foot space.

One lady toasted the buns, then assembled the condiments and veggies on top. Arthur worked behind her, manning not only the crowded griddle but the onion rings and French fries. A large tattooed man, good-natured and friendly, shifted between dishwashing, bringing in stock and doing whatever needed to be done. Another lady waited tables in the dining room, skating back and forth with orders. The last worker manned the register. I did see a girl, maybe 11 years old, take some of those orders herself and bring them back up.

The place is so small you can’t help but rub elbows with your neighbor. Yet when I arrived there were easily 50 people inside. They ranged from T-shirted twenty-somethings to men in business suits, all handling burgers and picking at fries and talking. No music played overhead, just that constant hum of half-a-hundred mingled voices making lunchroom music.

I watched as burgers came off the griddle, four to six patties at a time. The lady working the buns would pop the bottoms into red plastic baskets lined with aluminum foil and wax paper, each bottom bun covered with its supply of Miracle Whip-style salad dressing, white onion, pickle, thin tomato. Arthur would all but fling patties onto them — some with melting cheese — and then twirl back around, returning with utensil pinches full of fries or onion rings, flop them in. He’d throw bacon or jalapeno on top of some orders. At last, the top bun with its thin layer of mustard would be plopped on top and Arthur, the griddle maestro, would throw the ticket on top of the basket.

There was a line formed at the register. I’d made it here about 12:30 p.m., and the business folks were finishing up, getting antsy. They’d all holler over at Arthur, just about every one. A distinguished-looking gentleman in a black polo called out.

“Did I hear you were out of beef?”

“Just about,” Arthur replied, slapping patties on the griddle. “That’s what we want to do. We want to run out of everything.”

“I hear you must have struck it rich and that’s why you want out of this place.”

“Aw, you’d know more about that than I would.”

Arthur sprinkled a patty with spice, then flipped some to cook on the second side.

“I don’t know about that. You gonna remember us when you’re movin’ up?”

“You’re the one in line, you’re movin’ up just fine. Let me in on that secret!”

The gentleman nodded and opened his wallet, having reached the register. He flipped out a couple of bills, waved off the change and receipt.

“When are y’all closing up?”

Arthur reached over and slung down a couple of patties pasted together with cheese on a basket-bound bun.

“Last day’s a week from Friday, the 18th. It’ll be a few weeks.”

“And you’re opening over on Ringo?”

“Seventh and Ringo, yeah, man.”

He slid a single over, then another, and a third but with no cheese.

“I’ll be there.”

The gentleman opened the door to leave and saluted Arthur.

“I’ll be waiting,” Arthur called after him, and slung a big pinch of fries into the last of the four baskets. In one smooth motion, one of the ladies behind that counter grabbed the basket and slid it in front of me. “We need to get you an iced tea,” she said.

“I figured it’d come when it got here,” I told her. I had witnessed the crazy busy behind the counter for about 10 minutes at that point.

“Thank you,” she answered, plopping a fork down in my basket.

The mess that awaited me was hot. I just saw it all come together, but I still burned the roof of my mouth on the fries. They were unseasoned and greasy, more home-fries than French fries, but man ... that’s good. I dunked them in ketchup and figured out quickly why I had that fork and why I should use it. Flimsy paper napkins would not get the light grease off my fingers.

I examined my burger. Arthur came to the counter and grabbed a stack of patties from underneath. He gave me a curious glance as I took the first couple of shots with my camera, then turned back to his work with no comment.

The burger had a nice crust on it, the kind you get with a well-seasoned griddle, the sort of grease-fired crust that makes a great burger. The patty didn’t have a whole lot of seasoning to it, but it was what it needed to be. The burger meat was smashed down just enough with the long flat spatula Arthur wielded, cooked medium well and coated with the Cheddar cheese I had requested. The patty sat on its veggie bed, and when I took that first bite, juice ran down my arm and dribbled off my elbow. That’s a burger.

I looked up and the once-full restaurant had lost all but a quarter of its occupants. The clock on the wall read 1 p.m. and the business crowd was gone. Left were the lollygaggers, the self-employed and folks like me, unwilling to work on a time clock.

I was never rushed, never hassled for the camera or the notepad, just asked if the food was all right. Yet I got one of the best dinner shows you could imagine, watching the well-oiled machine that was The Box’s crew. And when I went to pay, I took a good look around and tried to soak up the memory. There are still stickers on the walls from radio stations that disappeared 30 years ago, photographs faded with age from beauty queens and politicians and an air of timelessness and humility. It’s hard to think it will all be gone soon.

Come August, it’ll be back, just not here. It’ll take a few weeks to get moved into the new place at Seventh and Ringo, and then The Box will be back. But I can’t tell you whether it’ll be close to the same. Will the griddle be towed over there? Will the grease be saved? Will what made The Box what it’s been all these years survive the move?

For now, The Box lasts in transition as a lot of memories and some fine burgers, hanging on for another eight days before oblivion. We’ll see how things go.

If you want to go grab yourself a bite before the closure, you can find The Band Box at 17th and South Main streets in a pungently red and white building on the northeast corner. I’d suggest going early or late on the rush, unless you love that packed-in feel. It’s open 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Call-in orders welcome at (501) 372-8735.