basis, the same set of B movies shown year after year. One thing to be understood by a new visitor was that AG was in a time loop, stubbornly resistant to change. You could call AG the restaurant that stood against time.

Personally, I found the tenderloins to be quite remarkable for their size, but as food, a bit lacking. Three or four times larger than the bun that sandwhiched them, these tenderloins were completely unique, the stuff of legend.  The breading was surprisingly thick, the meat almost paper thin.  Chewing it was sure to strengthen the teeth (words used by Francis Parkman to describe eating buffalo meat in his classic book, The Oregon Trail).  And since one person was unlikely to finish a tenderloin by himself, it was often shared among friends, or possibly used as food fight fodder. This was not a sandwich but an experience, a conversation piece, a symbol of Hoosier pride, and the one of the primary reasons of Al Green's rise to stardom.  There was more than a small bit of irony, this Jewish family peddling pork sandwiches on their way to culinary fame.

By the time I arrived at AG’s in the early1970s it seemed run down and a little creepy. The hours of operation were irregular, the movies were only shown once in a while, many speakers did not work, and the place was in bad repair. Aside from a clientele of local high school kids, there were always a few old timers who drove many miles to get their fix of famous food, often driving 57 Chevies and other classic 50s cars. One big difference between the old customer base and the new is that the older ones universally sported Elvis hair dos. We, on the other hand, wore the typical rock n roll haircut, long and never combed back.  Like Elvis, these Elvis holdouts never seemed to adapt to the 70s, much like Al Green’s itself. There they could briefly return to that happier, hippiless time, take their girl on a low budget date while showing off their hotrod and spend a few minutes with Belle Green, who always took the orders.

Truth be told, a good deal of Al Green's popularity was owed to Belle Green, a middle-aged Jewish woman, short in stature and somewhat portly. Her hallmark was the ability to remember names, seemingly thousands of them. She greeted any repeat customer by name, no matter how long ago he or she had last visited. If she didn't know your name, she’d ask you for it then store it in her encyclopedic memory. Her friendliness extended to every customer who came in, including the hayseeds and bumpkins that rolled in from nearby cornfields. After all, this was Indiana, where agriculture was king. Her conversation was not clichés and pleasantries like you would expect from an extroverted hostess. No, she wanted your personal information: girlfriends, boyfriends, brothers and sisters, teachers, preachers, mothers, and fathers, always looking for buttons to press. Patrons felt as if they were on the Johnny Carson show. This personal style must have broken taboos in its day. Today it is not taboo but it is nonetheless extremely rare or nonexistent.

When not getting personal with patrons, she was boasting about their menu items. The French fries, for example, were made fresh on the premises, not frozen like McDonalds. Before working at Al’s she was an elementary teacher in Michigan and then a dietician at Riley Hospital where her brother Morris later became Physician in Chief.

Years later it occurred to me that Belle's order counter had a lot in common with the inns and taverns of the 19th century, when the pace of traveling allowed travelers many opportunities to exchange stories as they ate and congregated in the dining area. There would have been numerous inns along the National Road, the old name for US 40, only 50 feet from where Belle stood.

One of the many mysteries of Al Green’s was the extremely long wait for the orders. Even when there were few visible customers, the wait was typically an hour or two. Our teenage minds simply could not fathom a reason for this. Probably the best explanation is that they were swamped with orders coming in from nearby factories working the night shift. In any case, you didn't go to Al's if you were in a hurry. Today people today would have a hard time grasping that concept.

Al did all the cooking himself and could always be seen standing at his post, dressed in white apron. This was not Steak And Shake, where the the grille was entirely visible.  Al was partially obscurred by shelving and equipment as he worked the grille.  Al was the kind of guy who enjoyed having his friends come by in the afternoons to talk about sports, smoke cigars, and possible gamble. He would also sometimes shut down the business during Indiana University basketball games.  The truth is, he was a quiet man and not much is known about him.

The dingy quality of the basement, where the restrooms were located, was another unforgettable part of the Al Green’s experience. The basement was poorly lit, had exposed pipe and conduit, and it was permeated by a dank odor.  This was unlike anything you’d never see at McDonalds.

According to several people, Belle was living on the premises up to a month before demolition. A wrecking crew foreman claims to have seen  evidence of human habitation. He also filled four dumpsters with trash, including equipment, tables, cabinets, vats of ancient grease, etc.

Unfortunately, no future archeologist will have a chance to excavate this ancient grease (pun, get it?) since it’s all been destroyed. If any archeologists do happen upon this gem of a dig site, they will probably find mostly empty rooms since the salvage crew cleared out the content. That raises the question, why haul away junk from an underground site that was to be filled in anyway? Why not just cover it over? Chalk up one more mystery.

Al Green's Famous Food rose to stardom in the 40s to 50s then burned out as it came crashing back to earth in the 70s. While the restaurant is gone for good, its memory lives on, like “a song that will not die,” much like the lyrics to Hoagy Carmichael’s immortal classic, Stardust.