Just before my family moved to New York, I was scheduled to get braces. My orthodontist was kind enough to run through his list of “New York must-dos” while I laid in the dentist’s chair with a mouth full of pink molding putty. The list grew with each appointment, but there was one spot he was sure to remind me about every visit—Shake Shack.
So even before moving from San Francisco to Battery Park, not unlike a desert mirage, the burger joint held a sort of mysticism for me. There were places that sold burgers, and then there was Shake Shack. Not a restaurant, but surely not fast food. Leaving the dentist’s office with a goody bag of mouthwash, I convinced myself an excursion to Shake Shack would surely mark the start of my becoming a New Yorker.
Imagine my elation when, after flying across the country to our new home, I discovered we were just one block from the lauded establishment. As I lugged cardboard boxes through the building’s front door, my eyes watched the line winding around the block and fading off into the distance, or, at least, out of my line of sight.
“Is it really that popular?” I asked a heavily-caffeinated neighbor.
“You’ve got no idea,” she said, shaky grip tight around the handle of a three-seat stroller.
Planning my first visit became a game. Hoping to avoid waiting hours in the sweltering heat, I opted to spend time strategizing in front of scarce air conditioning vents. From careful observation, I realized the line was always three blocks long by 1:00pm, but the soccer team from the grade school down the street arrived promptly at 11:00am. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. Something someone like me, who still called New York “The Big Apple,” was missing.
My first attempt ended in disaster. I messed up and managed to arrive in the midst of an unexpected evening rush hour.
My second attempt nearly broke me. I sauntered over boldly. There was no line! Ah-ha! A “Closed for the Holiday” sign greeted me at the door. Only then did I remember that it was the Fourth of July. Defeated, I drooled against the glass windows––yearning for their generous condiment stand.
On my third attempt, the line only took up half the block. Like a weekend warrior, I’d brought a water bottle and a baseball cap—ready for the endurance test of waiting in line with hundreds of other hungry people. After an hour or so, I was at the front of the line without any plan whatsoever. I panicked and scrambled to skim the menu while patting myself down for loose bills and change. How could I have not looked at the menu?
All this time, I’d been so caught up in the logistics that I’d practically forgotten Shake Shack made food. It was too late for serious deliberation, so I quickly unfolded crumpled singles while blurting out, “I’d please, uh, love to try a hot dog, fries, and a chocolate shake.”
As I waited for the food, I tried to manage my expectations. Don’t get your hopes up. You probably just got scammed for overpriced Nathan’s.
But as I bit into the hot dog, I could've sworn doves flew overhead and the ding of the cash register sounded like a choir. The shakes are sweeter than ambrosia and we mortals simply don’t have the words to describe the nostalgic crinkle cut fries. Yes, it’s overpriced simple food, but we all have to work for something in this life.
For the past seven years, I’ve experimented with chicken burgers and lemonades, but no order thus far has topped that of my initial order at Shake Shack. Perhaps, if I venture too far beyond the hot dog, the mustardy enchantment will end. Or maybe it’s just that their hot dogs are really that good.