The Enola Gay Burger

There's a place called Arco, Idaho. Somewhere around 1,000 people occupy a small tract of land in the middle of the Idaho National Laboratory, a vast space of flat, flat lands with the occasional rocky mini-mountain jutting up. The image is quite striking, if desolate. At some point, the United States government found these dusty 890 square miles to be the perfect place to set up shop -- atomic power testing shop, that is. And thus was born the National Reactor Testing Station.

But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.


Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.

Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.

According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.

When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.

Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.

On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.