A Brief Survey of Drunkard Dining in America
As soon as Jack-in-the-Box began installing contact-less card readers in drive-thrus nationwide, it looked like the end-all be-all for independent eateries open after last call. As if Jack’s classically fat-ass menu wasn’t enough to coerce youngsters into buying its midnight munchies, now one doesn’t have to be sober enough to exchange moneys with a person through the window, let alone sign on a dotted line.
But even the fast food nation’s cutting edge technology doesn’t keep some college throngs from flocking to certain mom n’ pop operations, and for different reasons – the most obvious one, of course, is affordability.
Take, for instance, the Original Hot Dog Shop (3901 Forbes Ave) in Pittsburgh. “The Dirty O,” its local moniker, serves large pizzas at $2.99 and a whole deep fat fryer’s worth of French fries for $1.75, served with melted cheese and Ketchup. O regulars (a bouquet of brats who attend Duquesne University and Carnegie-Melon University, but mostly the University of Pittsburgh) are notorious for dumping the fries on the pizza and drenching everything in the cheese. The O stays open until five in the morning on weekends.
Other drunkard diners rely on loud atmosphere. The 24-hour R. Thomas Deluxe Grill (1812 Peachtree St NW) is colored so vibrantly, certainly more than soused patrons frequent this midtown Atlanta spot during witching hours (read: acid heads). Everything on the menu is organic for either Georgia Tech vegetarians or carnivores.
Sex sells, too. Chicago’s Twisted Spoke (501 N Ogden) serves “Smut & Eggs” until 2:30 a.m. French toast, scrambled yolks, and breakfast burritos are half the reason to visit the Second City institution. At midnight the Spoke’s staffers black out the street windows and play grainy 70s porn on three televisions – the perfect accompaniment to help UIC students enjoy a hearty breakfast.
The safest bet for indie restaurateurs is to offer the last call crowd an array of overindulgent foods. Bobo’s Fried Chicken in Oklahoma City, OK, slings greasy birds basted in honey ‘til 4 a.m.
The Okey-dokey operation doesn’t have a physical address (the crew cooks out of a trailer, usually one mile east of the state capitol), but Langston University’s mouths know where to find it. After midnight, the line is longer than any Jack-in-the-Crack in town, and Bobo doesn’t take credit cards.
