Mark isnÆt embarrassed. If anything, he doesnÆt seem to understand what all the fuss is about. So the grease hasnÆt been changed in 85 years? So what?

ôWe strain it three or four times a day,ö Mark says. ôWe even switch out skillets. But the grease, we never throw away.ö

If the idea of 85-year-old grease turns your stomach, you're not alone.

My recent visit to DyerÆs was fueled more by lingering curiosity than the promise of a great burger. After all, any restaurant that deep-fries everything on the menu but the vanilla ice cream, gets my attention, if not my loyal patronage.

Years before, an image from the evening news had lodged deep within my brain. Did I really see three motorcycle cops, sirens blaring, as they escorted a vat of grease through the streets of Memphis? Or was it just a dream? In my mindÆs eye, I can still see the pompous TV reporter, unable to mask his distaste for the story, as he explained the procession:

ôDyerÆs Hamburgers, a midtown Memphis institution since 1912, is moving to a new Cleveland Avenue location. Inside, the orange booths sparkle; the tile floor gleams. The only thing that isnÆt brand-spanking-new at DyerÆs is the grease, which owners claim is the secret to their success. Deputy Sheriff Billy-Joe Barlow, a longtime DyerÆs customer who claims he was ôweaned on Double- Doubles is in charge of security for the relocation effort.ö

On and on and on he prattled. After an interview with Billy Joe, the camera cut to a bubbling vat of vintage grease and then slowly faded out.

I was hooked. While all around me doctors, nutritionists and other, assorted purveyors of gustatory guilt, preached the gospel of a low cholesterol, high fiber, highly boring diet, here was a restaurateur willing to stand up and say ôDamn it all to hell. Grease is good!ö

Three years passed before I was able to visit DyerÆs. I came, expecting to find some lesser Waffle House, shrouded in an oily fog of lard and tobacco and manned by a pot-bellied fry cook. Instead, I found a clean storefront in a slightly down-at-the- heels strip shopping center. The menu was simple, very simple.

Throughout the years, DyerÆs core offerings have remained the same: Singles, Doubles, Double Doubles and Split Hotdogs are the mainstays.

The most curious of these, the split hot dog, is actually the simplest. Two hotdogs are split laterally, plopped in the hot oil and then crossed atop a bun. As for the Singles, Doubles and Doubles, they refer to the number of hamburger patties and slices of cheese on your burger. HereÆs how DyerÆs does it:

Smack! goes the mallet down onto the sturdy, white counter. What was a racquet ball-sized lump of fresh, ground beef is now as flat as the proverbial pancake. Gently, the fry cook scoops up the meat, pushes aside hotdogs and hamburgers already burbling away, and slides it into an oversized skillet of simmering oil. Slowly, the little disk of beef slides to the bottom.

A minute or two passes before the burger bobs to the surface. The fry cook scoops out the meat and slides it (along with a thin skein of grease) onto a cottony bun slathered with mustard and scattered with onions and pickles.

A year or so ago, DyerÆs added fries to the menu. Though any change in this beloved institution is scorned by the regulars, this one was easy to accept. After all, they were FRIED werenÆt they? Are more changes afoot at DyerÆs? If so, Owner McKinn isnÆt telling. Some things, though, will never change says Mark: ôNo lettuce. No tomatoes. Never had æem. Never will.

The secret to Dyer's Hamburgers success is found in its 85-year-old grease.
Photos by Anne Rochell