Five Guys

It was my singular privilege to eat with my family at Five Guys Burgers and Fries in Nags Head, NC, last night. This is the East Coast burger chain to which President Obama has recently given great visibility by gracing with his presence one of its Northern Virginia venues. They boast the burger the Washington Post calls the best in the world, or something like that. It's a greasy place, but there is no want of peanuts or refills on soda. I'm glad they call it soda, too, since our last two years in Iowa have forced me to denominate only "soft drinks," since I refuse to say "pop," and saying "soda" sometimes brands me as an outsider in the Midwest, and I like to keep incognito.

The ease with which I could order "soda" instantly gave me a wonderful, homey feel, but it was a remarkable experience I had while filling my own soda at Five Guys that really gave me a feeling of being at home, of being comfortably situated in my own Bourdieusian habitus. Five Guys always has a sign inside that lets you know where your french fries came from that day. It's usually a place in Idaho, in my experience, though probably not limited to that fine state. As I was pouring my drink, my soda, I overheard a family noting that today's potatoes had come from none other place than Rexburg, Idaho. "Rexburg, Idaho? How random is that? Did they just throw a dart on a map and decide to get their potatoes from there? What's in Rexburg, Idaho?" they said. And suddenly finding myself in a place where Rexburg, Idaho, is not where you met and fell in love and got your education and got married and had your first child and used to be on the rodeo team but a random place you've never heard of, I confidently poured my soda in my cup and knew I was home.

(Note: I can probably count on my thumbs the number of people reading this blog, and I think they have both spent some time in their lives in Idaho, so I may have just lost whatever meager readership I once had, but hey, just sayin...)