When I was a child, a perfect meal was a greasy hamburger topped·with a slice of raw onion, accompanied by krinkle-cut french fries slathered with Heinz ketchup and served in a wax-paper-lined plastic basket, and washed down with an ice-cold, syrupy Coke. My brothers and I also enjoyed other gastronomic delicacies such as beer nuts, sour cream and onion potato chips, maraschino cherries, Slim Jims, Blind Robins, and Weasel Peters. Food this wonderful was only served in a neighborhood tavern: a dark, heavenly place that smelled like fried food and cigarette smoke.