All Size Appetites

People ask me occasionally if I have any plans to visit the last operating Howard Johnson restaurant in Lake George, New York. My answer to them is always a resounding “Not anytime soon.” The reason for this is m my research of the place shows serious deficits in both quality and brand authenticity. It’s longtime manager was unaware of, or indifferent to the nostalgic value the Howard Johnson brand had, and by all indications he failed to capture the essence of the brand in the restaurant he operated. Online reviewers repeatedly cited poor quality food and outrageous prices as complaints about the world’s last HoJo. That manager stepped down last year in order to serve jail time related to sexual harassment of his employees. Since then, there has been little improvement from what I can see.

Customer reviews from the past few months contain complaints about a deteriorating building emitting unpleasant smells, the same poor quality, overpriced food, and a rude staff. I should probably go there and evaluate the place for myself, but the poor reviews and the troubling history of the location have kept me away. For all these reasons, I consider The Howard Johnson restaurant brand dead, despite the single persisting location still using the name to serve food that bears little resemblance to the cuisine that once helped Howard Johnson become the largest restaurant chain in the US.

Even though the restaurant brand is effectively defunct, it hasn’t stopped me from exploring other remnants of the fractured HoJo empire. In the earliest days of this blog, I stayed in an EconoLodge that began life as a Howard Johnson motor lodge with a HoJo restaurant on site. I also spent a night in a former Signature Inn that had been hastily converted to a Howard Johnson hotel. Neither was an especially pleasant experience, but I imagine a meal at the Lake George HoJo would be worse.

Despite the unfortunate demise of of the Howard Johnson restaurant brand, other restaurant concepts launched by Howard Johnson still have operating remnants today, the largest of which seems to be Ground Round. The Howard Johnson company opened the first Ground Round in Massachusetts in 1969, offering both a bar and grill atmosphere and a family dining atmosphere under one roof, but largely separated under that roof. The chain spread quickly across the Northeast and Midwest, and peaked somewhere north of 200 locations. People who grew up with Ground Round will likely have fond memories of shenanigans employed in the day to day operations of the restaurant.

In their 1970s heyday, Ground Round employed a litany of Uncle Moe’s Family Feedbag style gimmicks to appeal to families, including showing silent (and not so silent) films and cartoons on a large projection screen in the dining room, though Shakey’s may have done this first. Children would be weighed upon entry to the restaurant and their caretakers would be charged a penny for every pound the child weighed for the child’s meal. Free peanuts were also offered, and guests were invited to toss the empty peanut shells on the floor, not unlike Texas Roadhouse and Logan’s Roadhouse who have been known to employ the same policy off and on.

Ground Round’s fortunes went through the usual ups and downs as they were traded among a slew of corporate parents over the years, but the chain fell apart in earnest when in 2004, American Hospitality, owner of the brand at the time abruptly closed all 59 company owned Ground Round locations shortly before declaring bankruptcy, leaving the owners of the remaining 72 franchised locations to fend for themselves.

The newly disenfranchised franchisees came together to form Independent Owners Cooperative LLC to maintain the integrity and value of the Ground Round brand, much the same way Howard Johnson restaurant franchisees formed Franchise Associates Incorporated decades earlier. Since that time, the Ground Round brand has been losing locations, and is down to only 17 operating restaurants scattered across seven Northeastern and Midwestern states. I found myself in Western Wisconsin at the tail end of a 5 day 2500 mile road trip, and stopped into one of those 17 surviving Ground Rounds for dinner after a long day on the road.

Ground Round's neighbors are the typical strip mall occupants. 

It was just before sundown on a Sunday night when I arrived at the Tomah, Wisconsin Ground Round, which is situated at the end of a strip mall. Predictably, the restaurant was mostly empty, and I was shown to a table on the non-bar side of the restaurant at my request. I took a few minutes to take in the atmosphere of the place. It was dimly lit by a series of can lights and stained glass lamps hanging from the open ceiling. There were no signs of a child weighing station, but a framed peanut bag and framed photos of the Three Stooges and Marx brothers adorning the walls provided subtle nods to the brand’s gimmicky heritage. The wackiness quotient was very low overall. The place had a very generic casual dining vibe. 

Groucho, Karl, and Richard

Subtle nods to history were all over the walls. Why I oughtta...

I turned my attention toward the menu packed with large burgers and other typical casual dining type offerings. There was a problem, though. I wasn’t remotely hungry. I had eaten two meals back to back at the last operating Embers only 3 hours and 180 miles prior, so I couldn’t bring myself to order a burger at Ground Round. Out of a sense of self preservation, I opted to eat light, and when my server came, I ordered the “Lighter portion” of the balsamic chicken from the “Better for you” section of the menu. Yes, I ordered chicken at a place called Ground Round. Yes, I acknowledge I can no longer give Esmeralda Fitzmonster a hard time about ordering chicken the one time I convinced her to go to Rax with me.

Bonus points for the chilled fork.

My meal began with a salad composed mainly of iceberg lettuce served on a square green plate. The salad itself was not terribly impressive, though the fact it was served with a chilled salad fork was novel, if incongruous with the salad’s pedestrian ingredients. When my entree arrived, I couldn’t help but laugh at the presentation, which featured more condiments than actual food. I attribute this to my own limited appetite forcing me to order a light portion, and an overabundance of condiments, rather than stinginess on the part of the restaurant. My plate came loaded with four ramekins containing, a butter sauce and a bruschetta topping for my one small chicken breast, plus, curiously, sour cream and butter for my single scoop mashed potatoes. Where I come from, this stuff gets mixed into mashed potatoes before they’re served, but what do I know? I added the toppings to the chicken so it resembled the picture on the menu a bit more, and mixed in some sour cream with the potatoes. 

You know, some people like food with their condiments, said every dad ever.  

I try to eat a healthy-ish diet when I’m not on the road, and I’ve been known to order this kind of thing at restaurants that I have no intention to write about. As healthy meals go, this one was well-prepared, and tasted fine for what it was. Like present-day Ground Round, it was devoid of gimmicks and served its purpose well. What I needed that night was a light meal that would allow me to get a good night’s sleep for the final leg of my trip the next day, and that’s what I got. Had I ordered the chicken fajita egg rolls, pulled pork-topped Little Piggy Burger, or beef taco flatbread pizza that also appear on the Ground Round menu, and forced them through my digestive tract soon after both an Emberger and a breakfast skillet, I would have had a miserable, sleepless, gastro-intestinal distress-racked night. Instead, I ate light, and I’m thankful that I did. I’m also thankful that Ground Round was able to easily accommodate my requirements. 

Had I not been planning a meal at Ground Round for weeks, I would have skipped dinner entirely that night, but I was traveling on a tight schedule, and this was my one chance at a Ground Round experience. For their part, Ground Round did what the Howard Johnson brand was known for in its heyday, they catered to my specific needs. After a long day on the road overeating, I needed a light meal that could be enjoyed within the walls of a Ground Round, and that’s exactly what I got. The large menu was typical for the casual dining segment, and its wide array of dinner entrees, burgers, sandwiches, appetizers, and desserts means that most anyone who comes in will also get what they need from Ground Round. The almost completely separate bar and dining areas also allows Ground Round customers to get their preferred atmosphere along with their preferred meal, and in that willingness to cater to a diverse clientele, the Howard Johnson DNA shines through in the fading remnant of the Ground Round brand. 

Another subtle nod to history in my home. 

Howard Johnson called itself the Host of the Highways, and like any good host, they took pains to ensure the comfort of guests, whether they were stopping in for a quick scoop of ice cream, a fried clam dinner, or spending a night or two in Howard Johnson hotel. A 1960s vintage Howard Johnson print ad hanging framed on my living room wall brags that they cater to all size appetites, and I’m glad to report that their descendant, Ground Round, endangered as they may be, does exactly the same thing more than half a century later. The surviving franchisees have figured out what works about the brand and what doesn’t and distilled it to a casual dining concept that still upholds the Howard Jonson ethos better than the last restaurant using the Howard Johnson name ever could. I don’t even lament the loss of the silent movies and peanuts. Does anybody really need silent movies and free peanuts when they're dining out? I know I don’t.

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Dissimilar and Not Quite Extinct

This is a follow-up to my previous post Similar, but Legally Distinct. If you haven't read that post, consider going back and reading it before reading this one. 

Visiting multiple locations of a broken chain that still has more than one location can be immensely informative. Stops at different outlets of the same brand give you a more complete picture of the state of an endangered chain from a uniquely comprehensive perspective. My travels to every operating (G.D.) Ritzy’s showed how franchisees can vary in their day to day operations if left alone for a decade or two, plus how the chain founder’s vision can be modified to appeal to a modern audience. Visiting every remaining Rax (except one; I’m coming for you, Harlan, Kentucky Rax!) showed me how great (and not so great) a Rax experience can be. When I visited four Ponderosa Steakhouses in a single weekend, it became clear that the chain was in disarray, but my trip to the lone Bonanza Steak and BBQ showed that there was still a glimmer of hope for the Ponderosa-Bonanza brands. I have also long entertained fantasies of of taking a two week road trip to all 15 or so remaining Taco Ticos that are spread from Iowa to Louisiana with a large clump of locations in and around Wichita. It was with this mindset that I realized that when I visited the three Lima, Ohio Kewpee locations and a couple locations of the related Halo Burger chain, I wasn’t quite getting the full Kewpee experience.

Not long after I dined at the Lima, Ohio Kewpees, all of which have the same owner, I took a trip to Racine, Wisconsin to visit the last operating Red Barn. While researching Racine, I learned it was also home to another of the five remaining Kewpee locations, and that the fifth was less than two hours from me in Lansing, Michigan. Naturally, I visited the Racine Kewpee while I was in town, and I found my way to the Lansing Kewpee last week. The Kewpee chain hasn’t had any meaningful corporate support in close to fifty years and the Michigan and Wisconsin Kewpees have different owners than the Ohio locations. I was curious to see how close the experience was at the outlying Kewpees compared to the three Lima locations.

Kewpee, named for the then popular, but objectively creepy looking Kewpie doll figurines was founded in Flint, Michigan In 1923 and grew to 400 locations around the Great Lakes by the start of World War Two. The chain fell apart in the sixties when a new owner attempted and failed to impose a modern franchise agreement on the longtime owners of Kewpee restaurants. Kewpee was a favorite spot of a young Dave Thomas, and it heavily influenced Wendy’s which opened its first locations while Kewpee was in sharp decline.

A 1990s interpretation of the 1930s

During the two days Esmeralda Fitzmonster and I spent in Racine, Wisconsin, we didn’t really adjust to central time. We found ourselves ready for lunch at 10 AM on a weekday when we parked a couple blocks away from the Kewpee in downtown Racine, opting to walk the rest of the way. The building, according to roadarch.com, a 1997 recreation of its circa 1939 predecessor, was instantly recognizable from a block away thanks to its sign featuring a Kewpie doll, resembling a fully nude, crucified, pointy-headed infant. True to it’s design, the inside and outside of the structure looked older than its 21 years with its glazed bricks, porthole Windows, and low U-shaped counters. There’s a glass display case built into one wall at the rear of the dining area full of vintage Kewpie dolls. I made a point of not looking at, or getting near it. While the architecture was distinctive and felt appropriate for a brand with such a long history, it also bore no resemblance to the prewar Kewpee in downtown Lima nor its two 1960s vintage counterparts across town. 

I don't get how this sign is supposed to make people hungry. 

The food and service were also at odds with the Lima locations. Upon entering, the surprisingly crowded dining room, Esmeralda and I ordered at the register, received our orders wrapped to go, and sat down at the counter to eat. It was only then that we noticed that employees were taking other customer’s orders where they sat and bringing their food on plates. The Lima Keepees employ a more traditional fast food ordering system and do not offer table service, or plates other than plastic trays. 

Yes, I saved the wrapper, but I hate looking at it. 

I order up a burger with mustard, pickles, and onions, Dave Thomas’ preferred burger toppings, plus fries and a chocolate shake. Despite a half century of divergent evolution, the square, ragged-edged burger I received was functionally identical to the Kewpee burgers I’d experienced in Lima, and just as with the Lima Kewpee Burgers, it reminded me of Wendy’s original burgers more than a little bit. The culinary similarities began and ended there, however. The fries were crinkle cut, unlike the straight cut fries in Lima. Likewise, my chocolate shake was made of blended milk and ice cream, and tasted homemade, while the Lima Kewpees use a soft serve machine to dispense their Frosted Malts, a product that’s like a better version of a Wendy’s Frosty. Likewise the Racine Kewpee menu lacks the chili and freshly baked pies that are available in Lima, but does offer fish and chicken sandwiches that aren’t available at the Ohio Kewpees. Overall, the experience was perfectly pleasant aside from the decor, but if you remove the Kewpee name and dolls, it didn’t feel terribly distinctive. 

Downtown Kewpee in the shadow Michigan's capitol.

It took me a while to visit the Lansing Kewpee, but a few days ago, I found my way there. It was late afternoon on a weekday, and like the Racine location, this Kewpee was downtown. I parked a couple of blocks away, took a moment to admire Michigan's Capitol building, which was directly in front of me, then made my way down the street to the Kewpee. It's the only non freestanding Kewpee still open, housed in a short brick building crammed between taller buildings. There's a Yoga studio upstairs. People who look like they do yoga are filing in and out of the shared entryway as I walk in. I don't look like I do yoga. I look like I drive around and eat hamburgers.

Immediately upon entry, I'm met with a large red and white porcelain "Kewpee Hotel Hamburgs" sign, that looks to date from the early days of the Kewpee brand. A little research revealed that this location dates back to 1923, and is therefore the oldest Kewpee still in operation. The interior of the place with its exposed brick, arching alcoves, and tufted booths feels old and comfortable. The business is still run by the family of the original owner, and outside signage reads "Weston's Kewpee Restaurant." It feels like one of thousands of mom and pop burger places, which it essentially is. I doubt many of the regulars here know that Kewpee was ever a chain. Still, there are Kewpee artifacts here and there on the walls, mostly the same blue and white monochrome logo that's on the top of the menu. It's an odd time of day and the place is nearly empty. A sign near the door tells me to sit whereever I want. I oblige, and a waitress greets me at my table. I order a Diet Coke and review the paper menu. It's the most extensive Kewpee menu I've seen, with only a small section near the top devoted to hamburgers. Shakes are nowhere to be found, but this Kewpee is true to the chain's Michigan roots. 

You have to flip the menu over to get to the burgers.

The likelihood of encountering green olives on a hamburger increases dramatically the further west one travels in Michigan, and I suspect the Flint-born Kewpee was slinging olive burgers from the very beginning. The Lima Kewpees, which dress each burger to order, offer green olives as a topping option. Halo Burger, which is a descendant of Kewpee also has an olive burger on the menu. While green olives were conspicuously absent from the Racine Kewpee, they're prominently featured on the burgers of the lone remaining Michigan Kewpee. Three different topping options and patty sizes work out to nine different burgers being present on the menu at Weston's Kewpee. When my waitress returns with my drink, I order up the mid sized King Deluxe which comes topped with olive sauce, lettuce, and tomato. She warns me that it has olives on it, expressing concern that I was expecting something akin to a Whopper. If only she knew I've forced myself to consume olive burgers repeatedly to the point of almost enjoying them. 

Historic burger on a trendy bun with a side of middle school cafeteria fries

My order came up quickly, and the first thing I noticed was the brioche bun. I suspect it to be a recent addition given the recent brioche fad and the fact that it's the first I've seen at any Kewpee. The olive sauce seems to be little more than a mixture of olives and mayonnaise, which is consistent with just about every other Michigan olive burger I've had. Despite the differences, the burger is a Kewpee hamburger where it matters, in the patty. It has the signature square shape with ragged edges and uniform thickness I've come to appreciate from the other four Kewpees. Despite the inconsistencies elsewhere, a Kewpee burger patty is perfectly consistent across five locations in three states that have been operating essentially independently since the early 1970s. The operators knew that it was that meat puck that made them successful, and tailored the rest of their businesses as needed over the years.

Meals at all five Kewpee locations gives a comprehensive frame of reference of what remains of the Kewpee brand. It's tough to say from my 21st century viewpoint which is the most authentic. Maybe they all are in their own way, or maybe none of them are. The Lima locations feel the most modern, frozen in an era when the Kewpee chain was struggling to remain relevant and adapt to the changing fast food landscape, yet they seem to offer the most authentic menu. The Lansing Kewpee has a storied atmosphere, and a long history, but the majority of its menu is a decided departure from the original Kewpee offerings, and the Racine location simply feels like a tribute to Kewpee, the burger joint equivalent of a cover band. Each has its own merits, and offers a pleasant, if inconsistent experience, but the blend of consistencies and inconsistencies is what makes these places interesting and worth travelling to in the first place. 

The Old Red Barn Ain't What it Used to Be

In 1938, a professional fisherman named Hendrick Goosen was trawling the Indian Ocean off the coast of South Africa and caught a strange looking bluish purple fish about five feet long with an oddly shaped tail, and two pairs of leglike fins. Upon returning to land, Goosen contacted a local museum curator for assistance in identifying the fish. Eventually it was determined that the mysterious creature was a coelacanth, a species that was thought have been extinct for 66 million years. The discovery of a living coelacanth sparked a craze among ichthyologists and museum curators that led to fisherman being paid exorbitant amounts for capturing coelacanth specimens for study and display. I felt something akin to that excitement when I was contacted by a reader who told me that just outside of Milwaukee, a single location of the long-dead Red Barn chain was still open for business.

Joe, you’re my Hendrick Goosen. This one’s for you.

Business partners Martin Levine, Jim Krist, and Don Six opened the first Red Barn in Springfield, Ohio in 1961, riding the wave of the fast food boom of the early 1960s. Menus were fairly expansive for the time, offering burgers, fried chicken, and fish. Red Barn marketing often featured three Muppetlike characters known as Hamburger Hungry, Fish Hungry, and Chicken Hungry to emphasize the diversity of proteins to cater to whatever you, the customer, might be craving. Red Barn was also an early adopter of salad bars, and offered their double-decker Big Barney burger years before McDonald’s introduced the Big Mac. (Both were imitators of Bob Wian’s Big Boy, along with the Burger Chef Big Shef, Burger King Big King, Carrols Club Burger, Burger Queen/Druther’s Royal Burger, Wendy’s W, along with countless others.) At their peak, Red Barn boasted around 400 locations in the US, Canada, and Australia. Corporate acquisitions and mergers eventually led to Red Barn being under the corporate umbrella of City Investing, who also owned Motel 6 at the time. City Investing had no interest in operating restaurants and primarily acquired Red Barn for their real estate. Company-owned locations closed, and franchise agreements were allowed to expire. Most Red Barn locations were closed well before the end of the 1980s.

Having lost the rights to use the Red Barn name, a group of holdout franchisees banded together to continue operations with a new name, The Farm. Alterations were made to menus and signage to reflect the new name. Trademarked product names were also changed. The Big Barney became the Farm Boy. The Barnbuster quarter pound burger became the Farmbuster. The remaining franchisees continued business as usual, over the next few decades as remaining locations closed for good one by one. Following the closure of The Farm in Bradford, Pennsylvania at the end of 2015, The Farm in Racine, Wisconsin became the last operating location, and the closest thing to a Red Barn experience available to the present-day fast food connoisseur.

The Farm sports a tastefully modified vintage Red Barn sign.

The order counter has a retro feel, even with modernish menu boards. 

The Farm in Racine is tucked in a cracked parking lot on a slightly seedy corner on the south side of town. The building is an original, purpose-built Red Barn, tall and barn-shaped with red glazed brick and a Rax/Wendys style solarium protruding from the front. Updates appear minimal. The sign is an original Red Barn unit modified as part of the name change, but the twinkling incandescent bulbs are still present around its perimeter. Restrooms are only accessible from outside the building, a relic of a time when a fast food joint with tables and restrooms for customer use was still a new idea. (Clancy’s restrooms had a similar setup, as did some of the older Taco Time locations I visited while living in Montana.) The interior of the building retains its vaulted woodgrain ceiling, original tri color vinyl booths, and tile along the front of the order counter. It’s clear maintenance isn’t a massive priority here. To the average passerby, the building might appear abandoned. An unkempt weeping mulberry tree obscures most of the building’s front facade, and its branches rest on the solarium. The asphalt parking lot is in dire need of sealing and new paint. Tall weeds grow from the gravel patches around the perimeter of the building. Even the large yellow letters that spell out “THE FARM” on the front of the building are in sad shape with faded and peeling yellow paint. Inside, lighting is dim, and the air smells and feels greasy. Every booth seems to have some degree of torn upholstery. The tired condition of the property conveys an overwhelming sense of impending closure. The locals didn’t seem to mind any of this though.

This is the most flattering angle I could photograph the building from. If I owned the place the first thing I'd do is bring back the Big Barney, and the second thing I'd do is cut that tree down. 

While imperfect, this is the nicest unoccupied booth I could find. 

Planters and wallpaper borders have an early '90s Taco Bell feel. 

The high, paneled ceiling was pretty cool. 

I was still running on eastern time and came in for dinner at around 4 PM on a Friday. While not packed, they appeared to be doing steady business. The staff’s professionalism was on par with the average fast food employee. The menu seems to have evolved a bit since the Red Barn days. The Big Barney/Farm Boy was nowhere to be found, nor was the salad bar. Two types of fish, cod and lake perch were available, the latter no doubt added to the menu to suit local tastes in a town situated right on Lake Michigan. (No, beer battered coelacanth isn’t on the menu, at least not on the day I was there.) Frozen custard has been added to the menu at some point, because Wisconsin. Hamburger and Chicken Hungry were hitting me hard that day, so I ordered up a two piece chicken dinner with fries and coleslaw, a Farmbuster, aka Barnbuster, and a scoop of rocky road.

Mediocre chicken would have been much better fresh.

The burger formerly known as Barnbuster

Having been born just as most Red Barns were closing, this is my first Red Barn experience. I went in with a healthy curiosity about history and my judgement untainted by nostalgia. I understand that many of you reading this may hold a special affinity for Red Barn and/or The Farm.  This makes it my unfortunate duty to report that the food was unimpressive. Understand that I'm not judging the entire Red Barn brand based on the quality of the food at the restaurant owned by the last holdout franchisee. Three decades plus is a long time for The Farm to have evolved and devolved away from the original Red Barn standards. The fried chicken, reportedly made using Red Barn’s recipe, tasted like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long. Likewise, the Farmbuster had a lukewarm patty that tasted like it had been cooked much earlier in the day. Toppings were Whopperlike in taste and texture. Imagine a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder patty (from back when McDonald’s still used frozen quarter pound patties) with Whopper toppings on a corn flour-dusted bun, and you’ll have an idea what it’s like to experience a present-day Farmbuster. The fries were the standard crinkle cut variety that could have just as easily come from White Castle or Del Taco. Vintage Red Barn ads show shoestring fries closer to McDonald’s-style cut.

Unpleasant dessert, not original to the Red Barn menu

I’m not exaggerating when I say that the frozen custard was the worst I’ve ever had. The marshmallows tasted stale, hardened past the point that lowering their temperature would harden them, and the almonds were the thin, unsalted slivers that are more at home in green beans than in ice cream. The chunky marshmallows and almond shards were also far too numerous, making for an unsettling mouthfeel. You could make the case that the less than fresh burger and chicken I had were perhaps, authentic, relics of a time when fast food was designed for minimum cost and maximum convenience with freshness as an afterthought and that my expectation to receive freshly-prepared food at an off-peak time may have been a bit too lofty, but the way a purveyor of frozen custard situated in America’s Dairyland mangled what is objectively the best ice cream flavor is what really soured me on the food at The Farm.

Images of The Farm in Bradford, PA on the fansite, barnbuster.net, show that both the Big Barney/Farm Boy and the salad bar were available. I can’t help but think that the now-closed Bradford location would have offered a more authentic Red Barn experience, but while I’m a little sad I missed my chance to visit that location, I’m very thankful I didn’t miss out on Red Barn completely.

The coelacanth isn't an especially pretty or commercially viable fish, but the fact that the species survived unnoticed by humans while thought to be extinct is immensely interesting. I feel the same about The Farm. Though my dining experience there wasn’t especially positive, I’m grateful that it was brought to my attention, and I’m glad I was able to have a fleeting glimpse of what it would have been like to eat at a Red Barn while it’s still possible. Good, bad, or ugly, finding that remnant of an otherwise defunct brand and experiencing a bit of history firsthand is always a positive experience in its own way. I’d rather have a bad meal at a location of a broken chain than to not experience it at all.