No More White Castle

Why my first trip to this fast food fortress will also be my last.

By Jon Rosen | 12.01.05

About two hours southwest of Paris, in the heart of the Loire Valley, lies the Chateau de Chambord, one of the world's most storied white castles. Erected in 1547 under direct observation of Leonardo Da-Vinci, the 440-room royal playground has hosted its fair share of Kings, and, naturally, the plates of foie gras, pots of fondue, and bottles of cabernet that one would expect to have accompanied them. Unfortunately, for a certain writer seeking to draw an historical parallel between this white castle and the middle-American friterie that goes by such a name, the wealthy patrons of Chambord probably never indulged in a quick meal of burger and fries. I imagine, though, had the palace's army of chefs ever decided to grind up the loin of an unsuspecting vache, toss it on an open flame, and slab it between two slices of baguette, the resulting sandwICH would have made some noblemen tres satisfait. More satisfied, I bet, than said writer after his recent run-in with the aforementioned eatery, somewhere in middle America.

Yes, about two hours southwest not of Paris, but Cleveland, Ohio, I somehow found myself recently among an army of thirty-plus invaders, slaying dragons, counts, and the occasional Bud-wielding pheasant hunter, as we prepared to besiege the local fast-food fortress. Our noble steeds replaced by a 1994 Dodge Caravan and two rented 15-passenger GMÕs, and our shining amour left at home in favor of brown and blue Tufts University cross country gear, we descended upon this crude palatial replica: a white-stucco building topped off by rows of battlements and a protruding blue sign (coat of arms, if you will) that read "White Castle." Searching not to rape or pillage, but to eat and rest after a day of reeking havoc upon our rival armies of spectators at the NCAA Division III National Cross Country meet, we nonetheless presented a formidable challenge to the fast-food status quo in this otherwise sleepy rural town.

"Everyone to your stations!" the commanding White Castler ordered her subordinates as we skirted the puddle in the parking lot (not the most intimidating of a moat) and barged through the Castle doors. At last, we'd penetrated this sacred fortress. But there was no time to waste. Hundreds of sliders (the miniature burgers found nowhere else in the world) awaited us!

Despite being caught up in the moment, I cannot say my stomach was all that excited. Though in my twenty-three years of feeding, I've seldom been a health-food nut, I've always held disdain for anything mildly McDonalds-like, not necessarily out of concern for my impeccably chiseled bod, but more so because greasy burgers have never given me much of an appetite. In my world, as it should be, burger joints are generally off-limits, Subway is borderline, and Taco Bell is palatable only in dire circumstances. I once refused, out of principle, to bring my former girlfriend on a short trip to the border to get a "Mexican Pizza" and spent a week in the doghouse with the metaphorical Taco Bell Chihuahua because of it. But I didn't care. The prospect of compromising my culinary moral fiber wasn't worth it.

So why, might one ask, had I given in and accompanied my fellow running-nerd road-trippers to the counter of a White Castle?

Was it because of the recent big-screen hit Harold and Kumar, a tale of two twenty-something misfits that journey through the vast depths of the New Jersey turnpike in an effort to satisfy their dope-induced craving for sixty (yes sixty!) of the Castle's famed sliders — a film that bled new life into the establishment after a relatively uneventful 83 years of history?

Was it because, according to the White Castle website, a medical student in the 1930s had lived, under supervision of a "renowned food scientist" on nothing but sliders and water for thirteen weeks and (unlike his modern day reincarnate Morgan Spurlock who recently attempted a similar feat in the garden of the golden arches) managed to "conclusively" maintain "good health" while doing it?

Was it out of a mere desire for spontaneity?

Or was it, just perhaps, due to curiosity spawned by a favorite celebrity of mine — the now deceased outsider music legend Wesley Willis, who, on the contrary to the aforementioned study's findings, had blamed the Castle for his severe Obesity in "I'm Sorry That I Got Fat," one of his most popular impassioned melodic rants?

I'm not sure if I can answer that one. Regardless, though my stomach was already queasy as I accepted a four dollar tray of soggy fries and four even soggier sliders from behind the counter, I'd taken the step to White Castledom, and there was no turning back.

Before the first bite, I could sense that I was in trouble. As I peered beneath the miry, half-dollar sized bun of the first mini burger-of-mass-destruction, I began to have my doubts. Picking my way through an oily remnant of vegetable matter, which my fellow castle patrons had informed me was supposed to be a pickle or an onion, I set my eyes on the thin slice of meat-like product that Harold and Kumar had found so delectable. Was this even beef, I wondered, as I sank my teeth in, or would my stomach be the final resting place of one of the thousands of furry friends orphaned just a few states to the south by Hurricane Katrina? As I swallowed, and continued to munch, I decided it was useless to speculate. All that mattered, at this point, was that I finish at least one.

Which I did, just as the nausea began to accumulate. After one or two bites of the second "burger," I was through. Handing my tray over to my friend Brian, who (beyond my realm of consciousness) promptly polished off my plate after consuming an identical one of his own, I decided to venture off to the not-so-fit-for-a-King restroom, from which I eventually emerged just before it was time for our army to retreat. Back in the ranks of the infantry, I sat down at a table across from my Mexican Pizza-loving ex-girlfriend, who had taken the extra effort to run across the highway, bringing back with her a dripping, salsa-ridden, bean, beef, and cheese concoction from, yes, the local Taco Bell. As far as I was concerned, at that moment, the food in front of her might as well have been filet mingon prepared for Louis XIV himself. Though burning in the bowels, I was still quite hungry, and I very nearly resigned myself to asking her for a bite.

"Daniela, that looks really g..." I stopped myself, instead changing course and playing the "you should feel sorry for me" card by complaining about my impending sickness.

"It's all in your head, Jon," she tersely rebutted.

And perhaps she was right. Maybe my mind hadn't given my stomach a chance. Maybe I'd subconsciously judged the book of these burgers by their covers. Maybe I hadn't just eaten drowned dog, but high-quality Holstein. Maybe I was expecting too much from a castle. Or maybe, just maybe, I should have listened to Willis — may he rest in peace — all along. As he suggests in his I'm Sorry anthem, as part of his "strict diet," there will be "no more MacDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's, WHITE CASTLE, or other places."

I think I'll take that advice from now on.