By Rich Cohen

On road trips we knew we had not arrived in the real New England until we had crossed what we called the McLobster line. A border that marked off a new territory as surely as the Mason-Dixon marked off the South, it delineated that point beyond which McDonald's sold its populist take on the lobster roll.

I sensed the grand ambitions of the franchise -- to be both universal and local, all things to all customers -- every time I spotted the McLobster on the menu. There was also the Hatch Green Chile Double Cheeseburger in New Mexico, the Denali Big Mac in Alaska, the McTeri (with teriyaki sauce) in Hawaii.

There may be no better way to experience American heterogeneity than to drive in search of all those places where the McDonald's menu gives way to regional taste.

The very notion of variation goes against the founding vision for McDonald's. In 1954 Ray Kroc, a salesman hawking blenders that could make five milkshakes at a time, conceived the modern chain restaurant on a series of road trips that rank among the explorations of Lewis and Clark and the rambles of Jack Kerouac in the lore of the American road. Kroc, who visited eateries all along the new intercontinental highway system, grew increasingly exasperated, less as a salesman than as a customer, by the inconsistency of service.

The food at any given joint might be delicious or inedible, the wait staff welcoming or mean, the menu familiar or strange. The uncertainty compounded the already considerable stresses of life on the road. And the bathrooms! Good grief, the bathrooms.

It was only at the end of the continent that he found his El Dorado: the McDonald Brothers hamburger stand in San Bernardino, Calif. Kroc knew business was booming, not only because of the lines but because he sold the brothers eight mixers, by far his largest sale. And the bathrooms were spotless!

But it was the menu that got him. Hamburger (15 cents), cheeseburger (19 cents), fries (10 cents), milkshake (20 cents), Coke (10 cents) -- it was as short and clear as the Pledge of Allegiance. When Kroc paid the brothers for the right to replicate their stand and menu, it was with the idea that, no matter how far you drove, you could arrive at the same place every time.

When he opened his first McDonald's in Des Plaines, Ill., in 1955, Kroc placed his faith in the comforts of an unchanging menu, but his plans were soon overtaken by the desires and eccentricities of diners. The menu expanded to include the Filet 'O Fish sandwich in 1965 and Chicken McNuggets in 1979. It continued to morph as the company spread overseas. Hence the Greek Mac on pita in Athens, the McArabia (grilled chicken on pita) in Riyad and the Poutine (gravy and cheese curds on fries) in Quebec.

The stateside menu never stopped evolving, with biscuits and gravy in Georgia and catfish in Tennessee. There was the McCrabcake in Maryland and the steak and egg burrito in New Mexico. By nodding to local palates, a global corporate behemoth could seem almost provincial.

The chopped beefsteak sandwich, which we called the McSteak when it arrived in 1979, was my favorite. Though basically the same old hamburger, it was shaped like a flank steak, served on a French roll and came with steak sauce and onions but minus the mayo and goop. Complete with grill-lines, it was served only after 4 p.m. In ordering it, I felt like a sophisticate, set apart from the Big Mac eating herd.

For me, the McLobster was a lesson in national character. Ray Kroc imagined one menu for one people, but America is too unruly for that. Ambitions for true homogeneity here are destined for failure, which is a good thing.

But the McLobster is no longer on offer, and neither is that special beefsteak sandwich. They both proved too expensive to make and unprofitable to sell, so they are gone. This, too, is perfectly American. There's a power even greater than regional taste: the bottom line.

(END) Dow Jones Newswires

August 07, 2025 14:00 ET (18:00 GMT)

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