I’m at Frisko Freeze with my crotchety 80-year-old Uncle Fred, who is wearing both a clean shirt and jeans. Very much against his will.
He balked at taking a shower.
He asked for two burgers, which is about two-thirds of a pound of beef, for a skinny old man who probably weighs a buck thirty.
I’m getting him fries and a chocolate shake too. Gotta fatten him up for Passover/Easter.
Frisko Freeze, in Tacoma, Washington, is on the National Register of Historic Places. Fred, who tried to buy it after the original owner died in the ’60s, is also on the Register. Under the heading “Old Dirty Bastid.”
He’s quietly criticizing someone’s order now.
“Why is she ordering a small cheeseburger,” he says. “She should have just said regular cheeseburger.”
He gets worked up about this stuff.
“Every time I come here I think I could have owned this place,” he says. “If it wasn’t for that twit.”
The twit is the owner’s daughter, who opted to keep it in the family.
Food hasn’t changed a bit. It’s still great.
