The “if you know, you know” place for some after-hours grub
Where does the real Memphis eat after dark?
In this town, the picks are numbered. The obvious choices could be made anywhere else: Krystal, Waffle House, Cook Out. Okay—not anywhere else, but plenty of places that aren’t here.
But what about the locals? Where do you eat late at night in a town like Memphis, where most downhome restaurants shutter by nine o’clock sharp? Where’s the “if you know, you know” place to be for some guilty after-hours grub?
Well, plenty of Memphians might tell you, Dixie Queen, of course.
If you’ve been here long enough, you know you’ve seen ‘em. The all-white box buildings with the pink-checkered stripe. The big, blue-trimmed signpost. The glittering, cursive-lettered logo like the title screen out of a mid-20th century TV show. The wrap-around horseshoe drive-thru. A marquee calling out to the dark street: HAMBURGERS, CHILI DOGS, SHAKES.
And if you get far enough away from town, you notice that, suddenly, they all disappear.
Dixie Queen is a Memphis thing. Like Jack Pirtle’s and Tops, it’s one of those hometown fast-food idiosyncrasies you can only find here.
Well, if you count West Memphis and Southaven as “here,” too. But unlike those other local chains, Dixie Queen seems to be stuck in time—a relic of an America the world has otherwise left behind. But how’d we get there?
Actually, with some Italian guy in the late 1940s. Regolo Raffanti immigrated from Italy to Memphis and opened an ice cream shop, which he transformed into a Dairy Queen franchise—a great business decision in those days, as modern consumerism was breaking dawn on the face of America. But a falling out between the parent company and Regolo led to him starting his own rival business of sorts: Dixie Queen. Similar to Dairy Queen, but rooted in the South. The concept was pretty simple: greasy-spoon fare. Burgers, chopped up with the side of a griddle spatula. Half-crisp, half soggy fries. Hot dogs. Soft ice cream. Word on the street is that Elvis Presley’s order was a burger and a Purple Cow milkshake—a concerningly tasty concoction of grape juice and vanilla ice cream.
Fast forward 75 years. There are 16 Dixie Queen locations, all of which Regolo’s grandson, David Raffanti, and great-grandson, Joe Raffanti, oversee, save one—the Mt. Moriah location is the only franchise and is owned by Todd Reese. The OG menu has seen some additions: wings, Philly cheesesteaks, fried fish.
But in the spirit of its beginnings as an ice cream shop, Dixie Queen has stayed true to its desserts.
Sundaes come in the clutches of butterscotch, chocolate, vanilla, pineapple, hot fudge, and strawberry, all topped up with whipped cream, peanuts, and a maraschino cherry. Shakes can be ordered from small to large but are always extra thick regardless of the size. You’ll find yourself using a spoon or the straw with an open lid to shovel bits of Oreo into your mouth. This is especially true with the Humdinger—a sort of open-faced shake which can be topped with blitzed up Oreos or Butterfingers or even Snickers, depending on the location.
Maybe the most off-kilter and compelling desserts at Dixie Queen are those that involve artificial fruit.
Freezes are titanic clashes on the tongue between fruity tang and creamy richness.
They’re not quite smoothies and not quite milkshakes, but somewhere in between. Maybe a frozen piña colada with whipped cream and without the booze would be the closest comparison, but even still, the freezes are kind of in their own lane.
Other than that—and the fact that every location is open 24 hours, seven days a week—not much else has deviated from Dixie Queen’s original spirit.
Dixie Queen is lacquered in an unbothered and perpetual stasis. The vintage diner aesthetic. The walk-up or drive-thru-only service model. Even the name “Dixie” has stuck around, rather loud and proud, despite a seismic cultural shift to drop it in the bin along with all the other Old South Confederate nostalgia.
And then there’s the food. Dixie Queen isn’t shy about advertising to all who come to face its windows that all of its food is made to order. You can tell, too.
Place your order at the drive-thru telecom and pull up to the window. Plenty of times, you can’t get right to the window because there’s a long line. If you can pull up right to the window, you’re lucky, but you’re still fixing to wait while the staff fries your wings and chops your burger.
This felt strange when I first went to Dixie Queen, and I sat with this emotion with the window rolled down, feeling awkward with my card in my hand, waiting for my food. I realized how conditioned I am to, over the years, being handed my food as soon as I approach the window of a drive-thru, which is a rather rare place for me to be nowadays. I sat there, in my car, waiting for my shake and my wings, trying to remember the last time I’d even had a shake.
I don’t know much about growing up in the South, but I do know what it’s like to have a Dixie Queen—except mine was a Foster’s Freeze in Los Banos, California. It was one of a handful of Foster’s Freezes in the area, but to me it was one of a kind. Plastic tables and chairs and booths with ancient butt marks worn into the seats. A yellowing lightbox letter menu. I don’t remember a month that went by, my entire childhood, that I didn’t eat a Big Boss—a burger with bacon and onion rings inside. My mom ate at Foster’s Freeze when she was a kid. My grandmother and grandfather ate there. It’s still there. Still a California-only chain. Same menu from the ’40s. Same building. Same old twinkle glistening in the grease.
It wasn’t until that day, waiting in my car in the Dixie Queen drive-thru, that I realized I’d been here before. Maybe not here, but here in this place in time. This portal backwards to perhaps not a physical place, but a moment. A feeling. An idea.
What is it about the Dixie Queens and Foster’s Freezes of the world that hold their own against the dystopian, neo-colonial machines of McDonald’s, Subway, KFC?
What is it that has preserved these spaces like fossils in amber against the relentless tide of mechanical convenience? Of efficiency at all costs? Of consuming out of necessity rather than pleasure?
Maybe it’s because it has that little twinge of home in it. Maybe because it reminds us of times when everything about our lives was slower, even the fast food.
Maybe it’s not just distance that makes the heart grow fonder, but time.
Time that keeps driving us on. Time that keeps us looking for what we left in the rearview.
Joshua Carlucci is a food writer and professional cook from rural Central California. He is a Memphis transplant by way of New Orleans and New York City. He has a BA in English from UC Berkeley, a culinary diploma from the Institute of Culinary Education, and is an MFA candidate in creative writing at the University of Memphis. @joshuadcarlucci
Michael Butler, Jr., loves everything Memphis. His goal is to show the beauty in Memphis that others overlook. He’s a photographer, videographer, Memphis tee collector, foodie, lover of tacos, and mayor of South Memphis. @_one901