Karl Klockars

Cellphones camera footage - it'll do.

This past weekend, I did something that might strike fear and loathing into the heart of true gourmets everywhere.  I ate at someplace where I knew it wasn’t going to be very good.  (That “thump” sound you just heard was the forks of “foodies*” dropping to the carpeted restaurant floor, en masse.)

But here’s the deal:  I didn’t care.  It didn’t matter what it was going to taste like.  I didn’t care that it was unhealthy, I didn’t care that it was barely hygenic, I didn’t care that the kitchen was visibly taking its time with my two eggs sunnyside, I didn’t even care if it was edible.  You know why?  Because it didn’t matter.

(That second “thump” was the jaws of above-mentioned foodies’ jaws landing next to their forks.)

It's like a little glass of sunshine.

Every single time I go back to my wife’s hometown, I always want just one thing.  Bell’s Beer.  And now that I’ve got my Bell’s back home in Illinois, I want the thing that was always second on my list right after a pint of Oberon:  Breakfast, lunch or dinner at the White House.

The White House is the kind of place that every small, rural town either should have or still does.  Clare, Michigan is in the “still does” category, with the tiny shack with about 8 tables open 24/7 since about 1935.  That’s a lot of hamburgers.

And ever since my first visit there, I’ve been chasing that dragon every time I return to the center of God’s Mitten.  It’s tiny, it’s run by god-knows-who, it’s moderately clean, the floors are slanted, the place is warm in the summer and blasted cold in the winter (every time someone opens the door it’s another 5 minutes of chill). It’s cozy, it’s just a touch run-down and it’s unapologetically itself, and if you don’t like it, well, there’s a Big Boy down the road.

Order anything other than standard grill items and you do so at your own risk – both myself and my father ordered the smelt plate just 48 hours before my own wedding, and didn’t stop to consider the consequences.  We were fine that time, but still – after the meal we were recounting our menu to some of the locals and they all gasped and said, “You ate the smelt?“  Like we had kicked a cat or something.

It's so...average! (And cheap!)

Every time I’m there it’s the same thing – I eagerly anticipate every single plate, every cup of coffee, every slice of pie.  I spend months telling myself “It’s the White House, it’s awesome!” and every time I go, I have my expectations shoved down my gullet like canned mushrooms.  I’ve finally come to be honest with myself – I wish it were a lot better than it actually were.

It’s not really bad – it’s just…average. And it’s such an amazing little piece of Americana and living small-town history, that you want it to be spectacular.  Anything less than true trancendance is a mild dissapointment – but you’re sitting there, soaking it all in, so it’s okay.

So, herein lies the problem.  Pop Quiz, foodie hot shot – you love a place, and by all rights you want to be able to claim this little piece of culinary individualism for yourself, to stick your flag deep into the dirty booth you sit in and tell the world that the White House is awesome, and I FOUND IT FIRST.  But:  if you go ahead and tell everyone that this place is particularly awesome – but beware, the food is meh – but you love it anyways! – can you justify your foodie* credentials?

"It's so...plain! And I don't care!"

It’s like loving a great uncle even though they use “colorful” language and drool in public.  Certain things about them aren’t pretty, but damnit, you love ‘em anyways.  I know there’s people out there that will refuse to go to places that they know to be below their standards.  If the burger isn’t top notch, if the hot dog has ketchup on it or if the corned beef sandwich is sub-par, they’ll drive the extra 20 miles out of the way to go elsewhere.  You know – those people.  They’d skip this place – and be upset if someone sent them there.

And here’s my decision:  I don’t care.  I won’t be them.  I’m not going to be one of those gourmasochists** (gourmet-sochists?) that lives and breathes to devour nothing but the finest, every day in every way.  I can’t fault a guy who wants to enjoy a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.  Damnit, I like Taco Bell and I’m not going to apologize for that.

So I’m making my peace with it, right here and now.  I don’t care that the hash browns come from a bag.  I don’t care that the coffee comes in foil pouches.  I don’t care that the mushrooms come from a can.  Not every place can shred all the potatoes, grind all the beans, and sautee all the mushrooms to order – especially when you’ve got about 4 square feet of space to work with.  All the YouTube fame (thanks, thefamilyjohnson!) that 140 views can bring won’t change that.

I don’t care that the stainless steel looks like it hasn’t had a solvent applied to it since ’92.  I don’t care that the fryer looks it’s from the 70′s – and I don’t want to even think about the oil in there.  I don’t give a rip that it’s less than stellar chow – Diners, Drive-ins and Dives won’t be here anytime soon…because it’s kinda too much of a dive, if that makes any sense.  (Although, to be fair, DD&D hasn’t ever been to any place that I’d call a dive so far as I can tell.  Guy Fieri isn’t going to hang out at Helen’s Two Way Lounge any time soon.)

It doesn’t matter.  For all its failings, the White House has a special place in my own history, in my own heart, and in my gut.  It’s a place that everyone should know about – and I’m glad that I’m one of the privileged few who do.  There are precious few secrets in the world, especially when it comes to ravenous food bloggers*** – but I’ve got one.  Well, one that now you know about.  But based on my site traffic, it’s only a few dozen more people in the world.  It’s safe enough.

*  God, do I hate that word.

**  I coined this term at 11:50, on Tuesday the 19th of 2008.  Mark it!

*** I almost hate this word more.