Our nation’s most famous burgers have good stories to tell. Today, only three Ollie’s Trolley locations survive - this one in Kentucky, one in Cincinnati, and the other in Washington, D.C.īut if Brown and Gleichenhaus had it their way, Ollie’s Trolleys - thousands of them - would still be thriving.
Ollie’s Trolley arose from Brown’s partnership with a cigar-chomping, straw-hatted grouch named Ollie Gleichenhaus. Brown - the same guy who helped transform Kentucky Fried Chicken from a fledgling, regional chicken joint into one of the most iconic fast-food franchises in the world. Part of the reason for its low profile is that Ollie’s Trolley in Louisville is little more than a remnant of what it was four decades ago - a full-blooded nationwide chain of restaurants dreamed up by the fast-food restaurant entrepreneur John Y. And the more I eat, the more my taste buds re-acclimate themselves to those flavors, and the more convinced I am that the Ollieburger is the most underappreciated burger in America. The same seasoning coats both the fries and the burger. There are other flavors in there, too - some I recognize, like onion powder, paprika, and cayenne, and others I don’t. There’s a magic mingling of oregano and garlic, cumin, rosemary, and Old Bay - an Italian pot roast and a Maryland crab boil all in one. Given that Ollie’s has no seating inside, there’s no other option.Įating an Ollieburger is like having a McCormick spice warehouse explode in your mouth. Five minutes later, she hands me a grease-stained bag of my own, and I dash back to my car to eat it. An Ollieburger, Olliefries, and a Coke, please. All in all, it seems like the platonic ideal of a family-owned restaurant, all “how you doin’, honey?” and “please come back soon.” I don’t bother looking at the menu before telling the smiling woman behind the register my order, because I always know what I want.
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One shares an update about a sick friend as she fries burgers on the flat-top, while another listens as she tends a basket of fries sunken in hissing, hot oil. Inside, shaking the water from my cap, I notice there’s enough room in the kitchen for the five women working that day to perform their duties in relative harmony. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” And while it can’t get you to the Land of Make Believe, it delivers something even better - one of the best hamburgers in the world. Every time I come here, it reminds me of the trolley from “Mr. Its interior, to venture a guess, could not be more than 250 square feet in size. Yes, it looks like a trolley - albeit one marooned on a sea of asphalt and cinder blocks since it opened 45 years ago. If you’ve never been to Ollie’s Trolley, it’s a curious thing to stumble across. I turn off the ignition, pull the brim of my Reds cap down tight, and run like hell. That bag reminds me just how hungry I am. In one hand, he’s holding a grease-stained paper bag, in the other, a big cup of soda. One gets out and rushes toward the door, but courteously holds it open for a sharp-dressed senior citizen in a baby-blue blazer who’s on his way out.
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Three highway workers come roaring into the lot in a GMC pickup, its bed full of orange barrels and cones. Through the sheets of water flowing down my windshield, I see a skinny white kid smoking a cigarette out front of the place, not giving a damn about the rain, it seems. During the lunchtime rush at Ollie’s Trolley in Louisville, Kentucky, I sit in the parking lot, listening to the radio, waiting for the rain to die down, so I can make a run for it.
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