Go The Extra Mile to Drive-In
TWO CENTS | OCT 6, 2020
Go The Extra Mile
to Drive-In
The difference between the drive-thru and its bygone predecessor may seem obvious, but there’s more to it than meets the eye. The drive-in is the American invention your road trip actually needs.
A trip to the drive-thru is as close as you can get to the thrill of a theme park ride as you go about your mundane, suburban day. Or at least that’s how I felt as a New York City kid living in central Connecticut throughout college.
Mornings called for a large iced coffee and three chocolate munchkins. I’d order via the intercom, move forward to pay and pick up, then loop back around towards campus, where I’d be well-equipped to get through class. Knowing the Dunkin’ drive-thru was open 24 hours meant I never went hungry if I was up late studying or missed dinner and needed my stomach lined for a night of drinking. The move? A plain bagel toasted with cream cheese and maybe some hash browns. The Dunkin’ drive-thru became a ritual because it was convenient, dependable, and fun.
This was before I’d been to a drive-in. You know those bygone pillars of 1950s food culture, which you can still stumble upon in pockets of America today? The difference between the two may seem obvious, but there’s more to it than meets the eye.
At a drive-in, you park in a designated area, relay an order, wait for the kitchen staff to prepare your food, then roll down your window to receive items like chicken-fried steak sandwiches, french fries, and ice cream to enjoy from the comfort of your car with a front-row view of the establishment’s retro exterior. Kirby’s Pig Stand, founded in Dallas, Texas in 1921, is the earliest known example, but the drive-in’s surge in popularity materialized over the course of the post-WWII boom. The servers are officially called carhops and sometimes work on rollerskates, including at the drive-in chain Sonic, which is known to host annual competitions amongst its staff.
The drive-thru, on the other hand, was invented by a man named Jordan Martin in the early 1930s of St. Louis, Missouri. The first known example was attached to a bank to allow customers to drive up to the window teller and make deposits without having to leave their cars. It wasn’t until the 70s that the feature proliferated across the fast-food industry (with McDonald’s implementing its first iteration in 1975) but it’s been a pervasive fixture of American lifestyle ever since, having eclipsed its more charming and idiosyncratic predecessor.
I’d like to vouch for the former by telling you about a little spot called Cluff’s Carhop Cafe.
We were headed to Zion National Park from Park City, Utah. The drive was 5 hours and 6 minutes. 335 miles. Searching for lunch spots halfway yielded one particularly alluring result in the tiny town (and original state capital) of Fillmore, UT. Population 2,608. Google photos showcased browned and puffy onion rings, swirls of ice cream drizzled in hot fudge, styrofoam cups filled with syrupy pink liquid and juiced lime halves over crushed iced, and a white rectangular sign fixed to a tall red rod that read “Cluff’s Carhop Cafe LLC. Est 1950.” To the left of the text was a cartoon of a brunette carhop holding a tray with a foamy root beer on top.
It was almost 1 PM when we pulled into a spot at Cluff’s semi-circular parking lot, surrounded by folks in their cars or crouched on cement ledges eating paper-wrapped sandwiches and sipping sodas. I counted three carhops on staff, all blonde with long braided hair. While my friends put in an order, I scurried inside to use the bathroom and snap a few photos. “Feel free to take as many pictures as you want,” one of the carhops said. I thanked her and thought about how you’d never hear something like that at Dunkin’.
Moments later, our milkshakes arrived, tall servings of vanilla soft-serve blended with blackberry jam or soft chunks of fresh banana. I scooped up bite after bite, half-heartedly attempting to save room for the savory stuff. When the burgers and fried goods came in a giant paper bag, I eagerly dug out my shroom-and-swiss iteration, which was stamped with a red psychedelic drawing of a mushroom. We shared above-par fries, extra-crunchy dill pickles, meaty fried ‘shrooms, and uniform-looking onion rings that revealed a mix of red and sweet insides, depending on which specimen you picked up.
Then we wiped our mouths, threw out the trash, and got back on the road, full and satisfied.
After Zion we made our way to kayak the Mars-like Lake Powell and hike the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon. On the last day of our road trip, as we set off on our drive back to Park City, we decided to close out four days amidst magnificent pink-orange hues and rocky surfaces with a visit to a drive-thru. The choices were endless. "In a few miles there’s a Subway." "The next Wendy’s is right off Exit 116." "I could really go for an oreo McFlurry." Although we were in the southwest driving up I-15 N, we could’ve been back in the north east, on CT-66 W.
We landed on Dairy Queen since I had never been. My Blizzard® was sugary and creamy, and the air-conditioning hitting my back seat kept its tall dome from melting onto my hand as I dug up little nubs of chocolate chip cookie dough. But as we drove away within minutes of having placed our order, I was nostalgic for Cluff’s.
Whether it’s a Dunkin’ or a Dairy Queen, the average drive-thru experience is ubiquitous and forgettable. It’s places like Cluff’s that define road trips; where quirks overtake monotony, where you’re greeted by a carhop with a notepad instead of a voice emanating from a metal speaker, where hospitality is included instead of taken out of the equation.
I think Kirk S., a Yelper from Phoenix, Arizona, said it best:
This gem is worth the trip. A real 50's style small town drive in. The food is terrific, and the service done by local high school girls. A true trip back in time. Take a few extra minutes to get off the interstate and its crummy fast food outlets and enjoy this outstanding example of rural America.
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Emily Wilson is a food writer and the author of Some Meals Considered, a newsletter about all things restaurants. She's born, bred, and based in NYC, but definitely might someday leave. Find her exploring new spots and hanging at old favorites on Instagram or dishing takes on Twitter.
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