Maryland Is a State of Mind

Ain't nobody in Maryland but us chickens. 

As a Detroit transplant, I’ve come to embrace many of my adopted home’s delicacies. I’m always down for shawarma from any of the numerous local Middle Eastern restaurants. If I don’t have at least one Greek salad and/or omelette at one of the many independent “Coney Island” diners around the city it throws off my whole week. I’ll occasionally enjoy a nice square Detroit style pan pizza with the sauce on top of the cheese, though that’s something I typically have to be in the mood for. Simultaneously, my Kentucky upbringing, has biased me against other local foods. I’m not a massive fan of Detroit Coney dogs, which come smothered in a thick meaty sauce, not dissimilar from chili, topped with mustard and minced onions. Instead I prefer my Greek-influenced chili dog in the Cincinnati style with a thinner chili sauce with a strong cinnamon flavor and a big pile of shredded cheddar. (Spaghetti with the same sauce and cheese, plus onions and beans is pretty good too.) The Cincinnati chili chain, Gold Star Chili, has long had a presence where I grew up in Central Kentucky, and their main competition, Skyline, has locations not too far away, as well as a line of grocery items. I’ll enjoy the occasional Detroit Coney, but the Cincinnati style ones are my preference, and probably always will be.

Vernor’s, a brand of ginger ale born in Detroit with a devoted following in southeast Michigan is another matter. I can’t stand the stuff. It has an excessive amount of carbonation and an odd metallic flavor. Maybe it’s a product of my youth drinking Ale8-1, Kentucky’s local ginger ale, or memories of an unpleasant childhood vacation in Northern Ohio where I fell ill and was force fed Vernor’s by my mother in an attempt to settle my churning gut. Either way, I flat out refuse to drink Vernor’s, or anything containing it, including the Boston Cooler, a mixture of Vernor’s ginger ale and vanilla ice cream, blended into an unholy float/milkshake abomination. No one knows why it’s called a Boston Cooler, as it originated in Detroit and is virtually unknown outside of the Detroit area, including Boston, where locals have no idea what a Boston Cooler is.

This phenomenon isn’t unusual in the food world. Hawaiian pizza was invented in Canada. German chocolate cake isn’t from Germany. (It’s named for its creator, a British-American chef named Sam German.) I was therefore unsurprised when I learned that the chain, Maryland Fried Chicken, originated in, you guessed it, Florida.

It was the early sixties in Orlando when restaurateur Albert Constantine saw early Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises opening nearby and noted their popularity. In response, he developed his own pressure fried chicken and signature seasoning blend with 21 herbs and spices, because if you’re going to imitate Colonel Sanders, you’ve got to outdo him with regard to the number of spices in your signature recipe. When it came time to pick a name for the restaurant chain that would sell his chicken, Constantine settled on Maryland Fried Chicken, in an attempt to attract workers in a nearby aircraft plant, many of whom had moved to Florida from Baltimore. His plan worked, and Maryland Fried Chicken was an overnight hit in Orlando.

Franchising grew MFC into a relatively expansive chain by the time Constantine cashed out in 1975. I can’t find a location count of the chain at its peak, but the Florida chain at one time had locations as far away as Pennsylvania, and presumably Maryland at some point. Some unknown hardship brought about the chain’s decline, resulting in locations outside of the core market closing. Today, around twenty MFC locations are open in Florida, South Carolina, and Georgia. They seem to be loosely affiliated, connected by little more than name these days, with different owners operating their own websites and Facebook pages. Most surviving locations use the same decades-old signs or modern imitations thereof, remnants of an era when franchisees had more support from a corporate entity.

Weirdly, the lone surviving Maryland Fried Chicken outside of the south is open for business in Imlay City, Michigan, over 800 miles from the next nearest MFC in Florence, South Carolina. With the final vestige of MFC’s northern presence so close to me, I couldn’t resist making the 90 minute drive up to Imlay City to check it out.

The Imlay City location bears the surname of (presumably) the original franchisee, and plays it fast and loose with the word "fried."

That confusing drive thru sign makes more sense when you're there. I promise. 

I arrived a few minutes before the restaurant’s 11 AM opening time, despite a stop a few miles south to get a picture of a billboard advertising the Imlay City MFC. I take a minute to appreciate the small, house-like building that houses the business, as well as a few curiosities in the parking lot. There’s the rectangular main sign that contains the chain's signature yellow chicken characters over a red backdrop with a convex top edge, meant to evoke the shape earlier MFC signs, a few of which are still standing down south. There’s also a photo opportunity in the form of a larger than life image of the same chicken characters with holes for you, your children, and your elderly relatives to stick their heads through for a whimsical family photo. My favorite feature of the grounds, though, was the drive thru sign affixed to a living tree, which really sold the rustic vibe of the place.

Chicken joint or grandma's house? 

Fun for the whole family. 

Drive thru's over yonder, y'all! 

I walked in, the first customer of the day, and ordered a three piece mixed fried chicken meal from one of the two women who were running the place. I picked homemade chips and coleslaw as my sides. As I sat down and awaited my order, I heard the telltale high frequency whirring of some esoteric commercial appliance freshly spiral cutting the potatoes that would become my chips. With a few minutes before my order came up, I looked around.

I kind of want to go back, and just order all of the sides. 

Basically the entire dining area. 

The dining area is on the small side, but feels reasonably spacious thanks to judicious table placement and large windows with more solid yellow chickens. Decor is decidedly rustic and very chickeny, with many small chicken knickknacks on every available surface. It makes for a mom and pop feel in what is barely a chain restaurant. Given its distance from other units in the same chain it seems unlikely that the locals, or even some employees know that there are other Maryland Fried Chicken locations hundreds of miles away.

So... 

...many...

...chickens!

I don’t get to ponder the decor for more than a couple of minutes before my order is brought to my table. What sits before me is a mound of fried goodness, with my chicken buried underneath a mantle of special cut potato chips fresh from the fryer. I sample the chips first, because they’re on top and find them to be crispy and warm. They’re seasoned with a tangy, smoky powder that adds a slight barbecue flavor. I’m instantly a fan.

It was necessary to eat most of the chips to allow for optimal chicken access. 

With the chips out of the way, it was chicken time. 

Once I’ve depleted most of the chips, I find a fried chicken breast, wing, and thigh. They appear to have been cooked to order and have a thick crispy coating, roughly comparable in texture to KFC’s extra crispy breading. Unlike KFC, you can definitely tell the seasoning is there. There are hints of sage and paprika present when you bite into the chicken. It’s definitely a unique and pleasant flavor without being overwhelming, and it compliments the flavor of the chicken well. The coleslaw is nondescript, but acceptable, as most coleslaw tends to be. My meal also came with bread, which to by surprise tasted freshly baked, far exceeding my expectations of a factory-made roll from a plastic bag. Instead, the bread was dense and flavorful. I suspect it came from a local bakery.

As I finished up my meal and gave the place a last look. I was glad to have experienced it. As the final location of the chain’s ill-fated northern expansion, the Imlay City Maryland Fried Chicken is a unique site in the local fast food landscape. While I’m often biased against out of state analogs of the food I grew up with in Kentucky, I feel no such bias against Michigan’s only location of the Florida-based chain that sells chicken allegedly related Maryland. I can honestly say that I prefer the experience and food at Maryland Fried Chicken to that of my local KFC. Then again, my dirty secret is that as a person from Kentucky, I generally prefer Popeye’s To KFC, so my preference of Albert Constantine’s chicken over Harland Sanders' chicken shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

What's Left of Lum's?

John Y. Brown Jr. is a figure in fast food history I’ve discussed before. During his long career as a lawyer, restaurateur, businessman, and politician, he had proverbial fingers in many proverbial pies. The Lexington, Kentucky native worked his way through the University of Kentucky as a door to door salesman, eventually earning a law degree. When the fast food industry was exploding in the early sixties, Brown and his wife Eleanor operated a small chain of barbecue restaurants. Brown’s experience in foodservice led to him meeting Colonel Harland Sanders at a political event in 1963, and eventually convincing venture capitalist Jack C. Massey to buy the entire KFC enterprise from the Colonel while keeping Sanders on the company payroll as a spokesman. With Brown as chairman KFC’s business model transformed from a chicken recipe sold to franchisees to be prepared and sold in otherwise independent sit-down restaurants to the traditional fast food concept that survives today.

Brown and Massey sold the KFC brand in 1971, the same year a group of investors led by Brown purchased the Lum’s restaurant chain from brothers Stuart and Clifford Perlman, who had purchased Caesar’s Palace a couple of years earlier. Lum’s origins can be traced to 1956 when the aforementioned Perlman brothers purchased a 16 seat hot dog stand in Miami beach. Lum’s evolved into an early fast casual chain, peaking at around 450 locations. Hot dogs steamed in beer were their signature menu item. When John Y. Brown took over the helm at Lum’s, he concluded that the menu needed additional distinctive items beyond lager-soaked weiners. Those of you who read my piece on Arthur Treacher’s will no doubt remember that the marketing strategies of most chains influenced by Brown all featured a Colonel Sandersesque spokesperson, and once Brown took over, Lum’s was no exception.

Enter Ollie Gleichenhaus, a notoriously cranky Miami restaurateur, whom Brown hired. Gleichenhaus brought with him his signature Ollieburger, a hamburger marinated in 23 secret herbs and spices. Sound familiar? Brown’s strategy was for Ollie to be the Colonel Sanders of Hamburgers, and 23 herbs and spices sounds much more impressive than the Colonel’s eleven. The Ollieburger was marketed as the “World’s best hamburger.” With Ollie on board, Lum’s locations began selling Ollieburgers and Ollie Fries, fries tossed in Ollie’s spice blend, alongside the beer-steamed franks. In 1979, Brown sold Lum’s to Weinerwald, a Swiss restaurant company known for schnitzel, not weiners. Brown ran for the office of Governor and Kentucky in 1979 and won. Weinerwald, in turn, declared bankruptcy in 1982, forcing most Lum’s locations to close before the end of Brown’s single term in office.

So what’s the current state of Lum’s? The short answer is that there are none left. According to Wikipedia, the last holdout Lum’s location, located in Bellevue, Nebraska closed in May of 2017.

(I’m somewhat skeptical of this, as Wikipedia also says there are no White Tower restaurants left in operation, but I know of one in Toledo, Ohio that’s still open for business, albeit with a drastically altered menu.)

The long answer is that while Lum’s is gone it’s spinoff brand, Ollie’s Trolley lives on.

Ollie’s Trolley, was designed as an ultra-low cost, quick service, companion to Lum’s. Locations were tiny buildings designed to resemble trolley cars, occupying a footprint roughly equivalent to four medium-sized parking spaces. The diminutive restaurants began popping up in mostly urban settings in the mid seventies, selling Ollieburgers, Ollie fries, and not much else. There was no inside seating, and very limited, if any outside seating. Customers would enter a tiny room with an order counter at one side of the building to order. In a time when many fast food outlets were beginning to offer drive thru service, Ollie’s Trolley offered walk-up service only. The buildings were designed to be set up on small, cheap pieces of land, often existing parking lots, and I suspect the extra real estate and logistics needed for a drive thru would have defeated the purpose of the ultra basic concept. The first Trolleys opened in Louisville, Kentucky, and there were around 100 of them in operation at their peak. The lack of drive thru service and Weinerwald’s bankruptcy forced most Ollie’s Trolleys out of business by 1980. Near as I can tell, there are three left in operation, one in Washington D.C. which operates out of a more conventional storefront, and seems to market their Ollieburgers as a high end product, on par with Shake Shack. There’s also one in Cincinnati, still in the original trolley car building, which sells Ollieburgers and Ollie Fries in addition to an expanded menu. The third is located in Louisville, Kentucky, and seems to be the truest to the original concept. I opted to check out the Louisville location.

No, it's not the Neighborhood of Make-Belive. It's Old Louisville. 

Menu or middle school science fair display?

The Louisville Trolley is located in the neighborhood known simply as Old Louisville. It’s situated on a corner near the sidewalk, and shares a lot with what looks to be a long-deserted gas station. I park a block away and walk to the corner. It’s about 1:00 PM on a Friday afternoon, and I’m somewhat surprised to see a line about 15 people long stretching from the building’s door. As I get in line, I note a beefy, spicy aroma in the air. The line, made up of older working class people and a few young hipster types, (I like to think I'm somewhere on the middle of that spectrum.) moves pretty quickly, and soon I squeeze my way inside the door. I knew the order counter area would be small, but I wasn’t prepared for just how small it would be. The entire space is maybe four feet by eight feet, and there are at least four other customers in there with me. The menu board is homemade and housed in a glass case on the wall. It reminds me of an elementary school bulletin board. There are a few burgers on the menu, which clearly defines what an Ollieburger is, and calls out which burgers are not Ollieburgers, to avoid confusion when ordering. I suspect most first-timers don't research the history of the Ollieburger to the extent I have. I order up an Ollieburger with everything on it, Ollie fries, an extra cup of Ollie sauce, and because I’m in Kentucky, a sweet tea. I pay with cash, the only payment option, and pick up my food at the next window, maybe two minutes later. I walk back to my van with my food. 

The long line certainly supports the "World's greatest hamburger" claim. 

I suspect the Cajun fries they serve at Five Guys are influenced heavily by Ollie Fries. The spice mixture is similar, though not quite as hot as Five Guys. Ollie Fries are also crispier and cut a bit thinner. Just like Five Guys, my fries are on top of the bag, burying my burger. I eat a few and dip them in the Ollie Sauce until I can gracefully exhume my Ollieburger. The Ollie Sauce is an interesting take on the ubiquitous ketchup+mayo fast food special sauce. Rather than pickle chunks, there seem to be small pieces of pimento present, and maybe some of the Ollie spice blend too, though it’s hard to tell because my fries are also coated in the same spices. The sauce reminds me of the pimento cheese spread you see all over the South, but without the cheese, if that makes any sense. The elusive Ollieburger, is the main event, and it didn’t disappoint. The quarter pound patty is juicy with a complex savory flavor with hints of cayenne and celery salt. I think there’s some sage in there too. The texture is more tender than most burgers this size, but not unnervingly so, no doubt a product of Ollie’s marianating process. There’s a thick chunk of Mozzerella cheese and a generous portion of Ollie Sauce, and the flavors work pretty well together. I might forego the vegetables next time, as they seem to throw off the balance of flavors and textures a bit. I don’t know if it lives up to John Y. Brown’s world’s best hamburger hype, but it’s definitely unlike any burger experience I’ve had before, and was well worth seeking out. I’ll be back the next time I’m in Louisville.

Ollie Fries, like Five Guys fries, but good.  

The Ollieburger, pretty tasty, and historically significant. Apprieciate it on all the levels I do!

The Ollieburger, with it’s brief fame, and quick descent into obscurity, is a bit like an aging one hit wonder musician. Eating at a still-operating Ollie’s Trolley in 2018, is a bit like stumbling upon said musician giving a rare, one night only performance in a dive bar. The listener/taster is afforded a rare glimpse into a brief moment of brilliance under the patina of several decades of obscurity. It’s these fleeting remnants of near-forgotten history that keep me on the road seeking out the remaining, intact links in otherwise broken chains.