“I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry in my life. I swear to God, this line is getting longer. Jesus, is that girl really wearing a skirt? It’s like below zero.”

Hanging out at Dick's: Tau Kappa Epsilon brothers.

Photo: Jason Siegel

“Oh, I know. Is it wrong to get a milkshake and a sundae? Oh, my head. It’s like 1:30 and the hangover is already coming? I’m getting old.”

“Whatever. This is the only cure for frat punch. Did Kelly want anything?”

“She’s passed out; she won’t even remember coming. Ugh, what do I want? Screw it; gimme one of everything.”

It’s 1 a.m. Saturday and Dick’s Drive-In is full of college students seeking relief from late-night munchies. The piercing cold doesn’t deter a group of bare-shouldered girls. The lure of the food is too great for jackets.

In-between bites of burger, the college crowd discusses the night’s events. The latest 50 Cent chart topper blasts from a new Audi A4. Its owner meticulously smoothes the collar of his Lacoste polo before approaching another group of girls wearing their sorority sweatshirts, despite their house taboo against “drunken displays of letters.” A casual eatery during the day; Dick’s after dark is a pseudo-nightclub.

Since it opened it’s first outlet in Wallingford in 1954, Dick’s has been a part of Seattle history. No frozen food here; Dick’s offers the kind of simple menu that was abandoned long ago by the time-crunched national franchises. Dick’s minimalism evokes the laid-back Pacific Northwest. The drive-in added to its burger-and-fries menu once, in 1971, when it introduced the “Special Burger” – two beef patties – and a “Deluxe Burger,” with lettuce, mayo and a pickle.

The Tau Kappa Epsilon brothers, or "Teeks," get ready to hit the road with their midnight snacks.

Photo: Jason Siegel

Although Dick’s is the underdog in the shadow of behemoth food chains, it gets attention from Seattle’s A-list. Dick’s cravings frequently overcome Bill Gates, as well as fellow magnate Paul Allen, according to several Seattle Times articles and a Dick’s ad campaign from 1999, which featured a caricature of an ambiguous “software genius.” Gates conducted his first “60 Minutes” interview from a Tropicana inspired orange booth at Dick’s Queen Anne eatery, the only locale in the local chain to offer indoor seating. Even the most sophisticated pallet can’t resist these intoxicating fries, so good that condiments are discouraged.

Not just known for its food, Dick’s offers a 10-year-old scholarship program and a starting wage of $8 an hour. The chain supports many charities in Seattle’s community, including University Youth Shelter and Fare Start.

After the coeds have cleared out until the next craving becomes unbearable, daylight changes the scene at Dicks. As marshmallow clouds scrape the sun, the order window is overrun by children and parents alike, clutching their money in anticipation. As I peek behind the cashier, I see employees hand wash the fresh potatoes for the crispy, crunchy fries.

Noticing my interest in the potatoes and the glazed over look of hunger in my eyes, an elderly customer tells me, “They’re the best fries you can get around here. Been eating ‘em forever.” His wife adds, “It might not be the best diet, but it’s worth it.”
Making it to the front, I lean on the waist-high, chromium counters as the man behind the glass inquires as to my pleasure. My un-figure friendly burger consists of one beef patty fried to perfection and a deceivingly simple dollop of ketchup, mayo, and mustard applied with customized tools. The ketchup dispensing “gooper” has been used since the restaurant’s beginnings. I ask the young worker about their clientele. Mostly locals and zoo-goers during the day, the college crowd at night.

He says that Dick’s at night can get crazy. As if I didn’t know.

Members of a Christian group stop by Dick’s to "refill" and chat.

Photo: Jason Siegel

“We were at a frat, it was lame,” says UW junior Brynn Anderson as her friends join the Saturday night crowds to battle it out for a chance at the counter. The ordering techniques have changed since the first decades of Dick’s existence, when separate food choices had to be made at designated windows. Confusion now only stems from the sheer volume of aggressive youths.

“You can’t come here without seeing at least like 10 people you know,” Brynn adds, checking her hair in the side mirror.

“I wonder what he’s on,” Brynn’s friend Jenny jokes, pointing to a hooded man who is glued to the window watching milkshakes being made. A scoop of milk, flavored syrup and a whipping and dipping effect administered by hand. The process is rather enrapturing.

Dick’s hasn’t faltered in popularity with time. As crowded now as it was in the ‘50s, Dick’s employees don’t seem to mind the endless lines.
“So what time do you get off?” a polo-laden boy jokes with the counter girl.
“Two, but you guys will be passed out by then,” she retorts, thrusting fry bags into eager hands like a relief worker in wartime.

“Lets come back for lunch,” a frat party-goer says to his friends. And that’s not just the alcohol talking.