Satisfied at Mueller’s Sandwich Shop

“Restaurant,” both the idea and the word, is French in origin. The word is a derivative of the French verb “restaurer,” which means to restore. To restore, by definition, is to renew, to bring into existence or to return to a previous and better state. Taken literally, the true purpose of a restaurant is open to interpretation. There are those of us who may interpret “restoration,” in regard to a restaurant, as a simple matter of filling what previously had been empty, the stomach. While this type of restoration is the most obvious, it is only superficial. Filling your belly doesn’t always mean you’ll be satisfied.
The definition “to bring into existence” gave me an opportunity to question what I’m looking for when I eat at a restaurant. I was brought into this world incomplete, wanting something more, even from my first breath. This hunger, need, craving, whatever you want to call it, is a driving force in all areas of my life – seeking satisfaction in all that I give and receive, in all that I do. The very same hunger that compels me to find God, to find love and to find myself, compels me to find something wonderful to eat. I am ultimately seeking the satiety of my soul.

I can only speak for myself but I believe that we all experience this food-induced soul-satiety on occasion, and, on a subconscious level, it is what we are looking for when we go out to eat or when we prepare an elaborate meal. Have you ever, after a nearly perfect meal, perhaps on Thanksgiving or Christmas, set your napkin and your drink down and remained in your seat, staring at the table. You do not speak, your eyes don’t drift, you do not move or even think – you stare. Before you want a cigarette or a cup of coffee, before you think about the dishes or your company, even before you want a nap, you sit saturated in renewal – it is euphoric. It may only last for a few minutes, but for those minutes you have neither want nor need, you haven’t a care – you are satiated, you are complete.

There are times when I accept my limitations as a seeker. With only so much time in this life, I, unfortunately, can’t afford to make every meal a spiritual experience – most of the time I am so busy seeking fulfillment in other areas that a meal becomes the superficial matter of filling up in order to keep moving. These are the times that you’ll catch me eating chicken fingers and ranch dressing over a trash can in the dish-pit, or sitting in line at the drive-through of McDonald’s.

But from time to time, I get a water break from the rat race and these are the times that I go out to experience food the way it should be experienced – fully. Recently I had such a break and what I really wanted, what I craved, was a burger. But not just any burger. I wanted one of those burgers that makes you wish you could walk into the kitchen, slap the cook on the ass and tell him he played a great game. With a recommendation from a friend who really knows food and knows Charlotte a lot better than I do, I took what felt like an insatiable appetite to Mueller’s Sandwich Shop.

Mueller’s is at 119 Huntley Place, off Providence Road, right before the inconvenient intersection of Providence and Queens and Providence and Queens when driving away from center city.  It’s a tricky little spot to find because there isn’t a sign visible from Providence, but as soon as you turn onto Huntley you’ll see a boldly painted, old-school sandwich cart with the name of the joint written all over it.
A giant oak tree whose roots make the asphalt parking lot look like a topographical map and whose branches envelop the sky greets you. The tiny sandwich shop, tucked in the back corner of the parking lot, was clearly built as a cottage and not as a restaurant. I felt comfortable before I even got out of my car. Walking past the semi-circle of hinged-together picket fencing, I began to notice something. Among the mix and match iron patio furniture sits a metal fire pit, kids’ toys and flowerpots, a mailbox and an old sidewalk clock. This, I noticed, is someone’s restaurant. A Christmas wreath hangs in a window and a wind chime dangles from the crest of the awning, sharing its nail with a purple hula hoop. I pushed the door open and heard the ring of the saddle-bells nailed to the door. After rubbing my feet on the doormat, I lifted my eyes and saw Dave Mueller standing behind the counter. I knew without asking his name – the restaurant belongs to him.

Dave has a face that reminds you of somebody you know. Appearing to be in his mid-40s, (apparently I’m a bad judge of age – turns out he’s in his late 50s), he was wearing faded jeans and a green polo shirt that had a few years on it. He’s the kind of guy that you know you’re gonna get a handshake and a conversation from, whether you have something to talk about or not. He actually walked around the counter to introduce himself and take my order. I was so intent on having a burger that I ignored the list of my favorite sandwiches – the Cuban and the Reuben, the Philly and my dear chopped barbecue. I ordered the Carolina burger, and a side of Chicago-style hotdog, although I thought long and hard about doubling up and having the pimento burger. If you haven’t lived here long enough to catch the definition of “Carolina,” it means that my burger was waking up to one hell of a hot day on the grill and getting dressed with chili, slaw, mustard and onions, getting into his bun and driving into my mouth. What better way to wash it all down than with an Arnold Palmer? I knew I could ask for this most anywhere I go; it’s simply equal parts lemonade and iced tea, but actually seeing it on the menu warmed my heart.

I went outside for a smoke and watched, through the center of the wreath hanging in the green shuttered window, as Dave and his help fixed my fare. Inside, I only had a few minutes before my attention was devoted to the delight of stuffing my face, but a few minutes was enough to observe that the interior of Mueller’s was just as original as the exterior. The black and white checkerboard floor scurries underneath Coke coolers with bottled soda and shelves of chips, wrapping around the “order here” counter, only 5 feet from the door and tucking back into the tiny open kitchen, which butts up against roughly painted, light yellow walls. On the walls hang the most eclectic collection of adornments I may have ever seen in a restaurant: a men’s basketball poster for Queens College, a Grand Marnier poster from the 1970s, a painting of tennis equipment from the ’50s, and a poster depicting the alkaline and antioxidant levels in various types of water.

The Chicago dog hit the table first. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled and it was gone – the perfect warm-up for a burger. She was a tasty little yipper, either deep-fried or grilled, I couldn’t be sure. The snap of the dog, coupled with the crisp pickle spear beside it, made for a refreshing mouthful with the additional relish, tomatoes, onions and banana peppers (more complementary than the spicier sport peppers). The ingredient-balancing act was made easier by the hearty poppy seed bun, but there was still enough love to let a little dribble off into the basket for finger picking after I finished. I would feel like a criminal if I ate a hotdog without making at least a small mess.

I had another conversation with Dave, in which he told me about the history of the Thies building next door, of the founding families of Charlotte, and damn near the rest of the city’s history. We talked about his former lives as a horticulturist, and working in the tennis shop at a country club (where he opened his first burger joint). We talked about the restaurant business – Mueller’s is almost three years old so the honeymoon period is over – and though he’s been struggling in the recent economy, he has hope and believes in what he’s doing. Most important, we talked about burgers. I asked Dave how he ate his.

“I’m a purist; just meat and cheese and sometimes ketchup,” he said with half a smile. “I like to taste the meat of a fresh burger but I’ll fix it any way I’m asked to for anyone else.”  It’s rare to find a nonjudgmental purist.

The Carolina burger arrived on the tail end of the dog, and when Dave set it down I knew I had come to the right place. Holding the burger in both hands, before my face as if to say hello, I was aware of the warmth from the lightly toasted bun as I opened my mouth in anticipation. Perhaps my anticipation altered my sense of reality and fogged my memory, but man…that burger was G-double-O-D good. It had been laid to rest just long enough for the charred walls to hold back the flavor that was loosed on the first bite. I closed my eyes and let the juice run down my chin; I didn’t care if anyone was watching. I savored each bite of that burger, working my way around the outside first so as not to let any of the Carolina abandon ship, and finishing it off without once setting it down. I licked my fingers, and I sat there. I just sat.

I had a long drive home, back through center city and up 85 North. I didn’t care about the traffic – I got in the right lane and actually drove the speed limit. I didn’t even turn the radio on. I wasn’t just full, I was satiated.

~ John Zoet