
I keep hearing these things about The Band Box on south Main Street in Little Rock… its ancient past just about lost in antiquity. Some folks outside the state know the place by its full name because of its connection to Bill Clinton; in 1992, journalists descended on Little Rock to dig up anything they could about the up-and-coming presidential contender, and what they discovered was he really, really loved his food. Not as famed as Doe’s Eat Place but somewhat closer to the Arkansas Governor’s Mansion, the little building got its share of visits from out-of-towners. Around here, though, it’s always just been The Box, and you just went and called in an order or went and picked it up.
I got away from the place in my grown-up years. Something about wanting to maintain a more svelte appearance and healthy lifestyle. But then I fell into writing about travel and food for a living, and I put it on my list of places I wanted to share with the world. And somehow, I kept missing it.
And then back in January, word came that USA Drug had managed to buy that block between 16th and 17th streets and were going to level the whole damn thing and build one of those spankin’ new stores there. I knew the clock was ticking… and yes, I finally made it down there, with eight days to go.
Now, when you walk in the place, the first thing you see is the kitchen, right across the low bar from you. You always say “hi” or “hello,” unless you want to get chided by one of the buxom women behind the counter. If you’re in the know, you say hello to Arthur on the griddle. You go find yourself a seat in the windowless dining area or you sit at the bar, either one.
This last visit (and I do mean last -- to this location) I walked right up and sat at the bar. One of the ladies there pulled out her ticket book and gestured at the wall with her head -- “menu’s there, hon.” I knew what I wanted before I got there, and only looked at the wall after she had torn off the ticket and slapped it on the counter across from my seat.



I watched as burgers came off the griddle, four to six patties at a time. The lady working the buns would pop the bottoms into red plastic baskets that had been lined with aluminum foil and wax paper, each bottom bun covered with its supply of Miracle-Whip style salad dressing, white onion, pickle, thin tomato and such. Arthur would all but fling patties onto them -- some with cheese melting down on them -- and then sling back around and bring utensil pinches full of fries or onion rings around and flop them on in. He’d also throw a little bacon or Jalapeno on top of a few, per order. From time to time I’d see a double-patty head over. The top bun with its thin layer of mustard would be plopped on top and he’d throw the ticket on top of the basket for the waitress to come grab.

There was a line forming at the register. I’d made it there about 12:30, in the middle of the lunch rush, and folks were getting done and antsy and needed to head back to work. They’d all holler over at Arthur, just about every one. A distinguished looking gentleman in a black polo hollered over.
“Did I hear you were out of beef?”

“I hear you must have struck it rich and that’s why you want out of this place.”
“Aw, you’d know more about that than I would.’ Arthur sprinkled the pattied he’d just thrown down with spice, then flipped the ones next to the new patties so they could cook on the second side.
“I don’t know about that. You gonna remember us when you’re movin’ up?”
“You’re the one in line, you’re movin’ up just fine. Let me in on that secret!” he happily called. The gentleman nodded his head and opened his wallet, having just reached the register. He flipped out a couple of bills and waived off the change and receipt.
“When are y’all closing’ up?”
Arthur reached over and slung down a couple of patties pasted together with cheese on a basket-bound bun. “Last day’s a week from Friday, the 18th. It’ll be a few weeks.”
“And you’re opening over on Ringo?”
“Seventh and Ringo, yeah, man.” He slid a single over, then another, and a third but with no cheese.
“I’ll be there.” The gentleman opened the door and saluted at Arthur.
“I’ll be waiting,” he called after him, and slung a big pinch of fries into the last of the four baskets. In one smooth motion, one of the ladies behind that counter grabbed the basket and slid it in front of me. “We need to get you an iced tea,” she said, more to the other girls back there than to me.
“I figured it’d come when it got here,” I told her. I had witnessed the crazy busy behind the counter for about ten minutes at that point.
“Thank you,” she answered, plopping a fork down in my basket.




I looked up and realized the once-full restaurant had suddenly lost all but a quarter of its occupants. The clock on the wall had just turned to 1 p.m. and the business crowd was gone. What was left were the lollygaggers, the self-employed and folks like me, unwilling to work on the time clock.

Come August, it’ll be back, just not here. It’ll take a few weeks to get moved into the new place at 7th and Ringo, and then it’ll be back open again. But I can’t tell you whether it’ll be close to the same. Will the griddle be towed over there? Will the grease be saved? Will what made The Box what it’s been all these years what it is? Those are questions to ask after it reopens.

If you want to go grab yourself a bite before the closure, you can find The Band Box at 17th and South Main in a pungently red and white building on the northeast corner. I’d suggest going early or late on the rush, unless you love that packed-in feel. It’s open 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Call-in orders welcome at (501) 372-8735.
It has been many years since I have been. In my younger days the Box was the best hangover fare known to man. A cheeseburger with greasy fries and a long neck beer. The lack of windows or light was a bonus. I am not sure I want to see the inside of that place with too much lighting. Sad to see it replaced with a chain drug store.
ReplyDeleteWe met briefly at Baker Park this morning for the photo shoot -- thought I would stop by and say HI. Now I'm hungry for a hamburger! Dang!
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