Memories of Buns©
By Jerry D. Haight
Twin golden brown buns exquisitely formed, just a touch of white around the edges, were so warm and delicate. A sensuous mixture of smells including meat, onions, warm bread and a special sauce binding it all together tantalized his senses. The fragrances thoroughly punctuated the air heightening the anticipation of the eight year old boy who had just escaped school solely for this experience. That hamburger was the epitome of comfort food and his anticipation was excruciating as he thought about sinking his teeth into that stress relieving burger. The place was East Denver, the year 1948 and the event was lunch at The Rocky-
The small white building, much longer than wide, consisted of a counter in the center that split the building lengthwise and another against the wall with hinged seats that folded back when not in use. Before sinking his teeth into the first Rocky-
The quest for the illusive recipe turned up several, and while none panned out, a place on Federal Blvd. alleged they specialized in the original Rocky-
The area, including 29th & Federal Blvd. was never Beverly Hills, but has an international flair nevertheless. It is the melting pot of the Mexican, Italian and Vietnamese Mafia along with other gangs like the Crips and Bloods. It is so rough that taxis won’t come to pick up passengers and will only drop off passengers while still in motion. The parking lot next to what turned out to be a bar was nearly half full of cars, ours was about the newest. There were also about forty of the toughest creatures I had ever seen. They appeared to salivate over the buffet of cars in the lot and particularly ours. I was glad Vince was with me, but began to wonder about either of our wisdom. We decided as long as we were there, we might as well complete our mission. So we left the car to go into the bar and as we did so, I pressed the remote button on my key fob to lock it. I don’t know why I bothered because any one there could probably strip our car right down to the beep in a matter of seconds, locked or not.
Before we entered the bar, we had to pass by one of the creatures I mentally named Jack. Jack wore cowboy boots, black leathers around his long lanky legs and a black shirt with what looked like a knife slit in the side about where his kidneys would be. Jack was reclined on the seat of his chopper with his feet across the handlebars. His butt rested on the seat while his back laid on the rumble seat with his head leaned against the back rest. His scowl and furrowed brow distorted his face almost obscuring the two scars on his cheeks and small curled matted mustache sorely in need of attention. He wore the rattiest pony tail imaginable. Even through his scowl, one could see the yellow of his remnant teeth, the survivors of his many encounters. Jack picked at them with a long bayonet and broke into a slight grin as he sized us up. I felt like lunch; his.
As we went inside, taking several moments for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, we met a waitress whom I mentally named Alice. Alice was of few words as she simply asked, “What do you want?”, Just then, I noticed a huge chunk of meat standing in the corner about thirty feet away. It had two log-
When we told Alice we were there for two sacks of Rocky-
We left the bar with our precious Rocky-