 Wally's Drive-In
If you looked up the term "greasy spoon" in your handy-dandy Dictionary of American Slang, you might well find a picture of Wally's Drive-In there. Sure, that's a really tired descriptive technique, but in this case, it's just true. Wally's is as close to legendary as things are wont to get in Clinton County, as the place has been standing on its same street corner in Breese for nearly thirty years. For those thirty years, it's been serving up the same burgers, the same fries, and the same shakes without fail, except for the five days a year Wally's is closed—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Labor Day, and Mother's Day. I never understood the last one myself, but if you only take five days year off, pick whichever ones you like, Wally.
The name of the place is only slightly misleading, as you can sit inside and eat, but there is only seating for about twelve people, and cramped seating at that. There are no tables, only a counter and your typical stools. Your servers are invariably teenage girls, ranging from "unattractive" to "boffo," that are sweating like mad, since the kitchen half of the place is permanently about 105 degrees. The service is always good, though not necessarily done with a smile, but I wouldn't smile either if I had to work in a sauna while a bunch of leering Illinoisans stared at my ass. If you choose not to rub elbows with the cultural élite of Breese, you can settle for walking up to the window outside, from where you can take your food on the run, or sit at the group of picnic tables on a semi-covered concrete slab.
Eating inside gives you a clear idea of what living in a small town is all about, as conversations invariably turn to such subjects as the weather, how the fishing is, who won the feature at Highland Speedway last night, who the Mater Dei football team is playing, and more often than not, who just died. All this is secondary to why you really go to Wally's, which is to eat, dammit. Wally's specializes in diner fare, serving up burgers, chicken sandwiches, fish sandwiches, fries, shakes, and so on. I believe there actually is a veggie burger on the menu, but if you were to order one, you would probably best: a) ask to check the expiration date on the box, and b) coolly ignore all the stares directed your way by the other patrons—who will no doubt have identified you, if they hadn't already by your smell, as "city folk," and will proceed to stare throughout the rest of your meal.
Your meal, though, will generally always be good. Wally (who reminds me of Martin Landau) has been manning the grill since nigh onto eternity, so he sort of knows what he's doing. He can cook approximately 349 burgers at once, and get each to exactly the same level of "done-ness." The buns are lightly toasted, and the crinkle fries always golden brown, excellent, and piled high on your plate. Add a dash of salt and some ketchup, and you have a culinary dream (or nightmare, depending on your point of view) to die for.
My usual consists of two plain cheeseburgers, an order of fries, and a large cherry (that's sno-cone cherry, by the way) Ski, which runs me $4.60 or so. The phenomenon of Ski is best not fully explained here, but it is also Clinton County legend. It bills itself a citrus flavored beverage, as does Mountain Dew. But Ski tastes like Mountain Dew in the same way that ZZ Top sounds like .38 Special. IT JUST AIN'T THE SAME, MAN! Many have theorized about what makes Ski so damned addictive, but the truth is still out there. I myself think that it's crack, but that's just me.
I can't vouch for the quality of the rest of the menu at Wally's, as I am just an old stick in the mud when I go, and I have my usual every time. No one I've ever gone there with has gotten anything but a burger either. I'll just give Wally the benifit of the doubt, and say that anything you order will come to you hot, fresh, and good. If it's fine dining you're looking for, Wally's obviously ain't the place to go. But it will fill your gullet for a modest price, always leaves me satisfied. You certainly get a feel for a different time, when our world was simpler, and it definitely is a piece of Americana. Since they tore down the old Avon Drive-In (the movie kind, that is), it's about the only bit of that you'll find in Clinton County, except maybe for the Klan rallies.
Review by Mario Speedwagon, August 1998 |
