April 11, 2005
Richard Morrison
BRACE yourself for a shock. You are about to read the most controversial sentence of the year. Indeed, I doubt whether I will get as far as typing the full-stop before I am hurled to the ground and gagged by a snatch-squad of eco-warriors, vegans and Guardian columnists. But here goes. The awful truth is, I feel sorry for McDonald’s.
Ouch! Get off my face right now, Polly Toynbee, and let me explain.
In the entire sizzling history of the hamburger, no date is more significant than April 15, 1955. Yes, it was 50 years ago this week, in a small town in Illinois, that a man called Ray Kroc opened the restaurant that changed Western civilisation. Its road-sign was two golden arches. It sold the fastest fast-food known to Fifties Man. And its name was not Kroc’s, but McDonald’s. Why? Because Kroc, a salesman who had sunk his last dime in a milkshake machine, had persuaded two hamburger-cooking brothers called McDonald to let him in on the saucy secrets of their succulent buns.
Genius comes in two sorts. One makes connections that elude others because they are so complex. The other makes connections that elude others because they are so simple. Kroc was of the latter variety. He was an ordinary guy. He had an ordinary ambition. He would cook burgers for other ordinary guys. But to that task he applied extraordinary energy. He would make burgers quicker, cheaper, more efficiently than anyone else on earth. His outlets would gleam brighter. His staff would work harder. His shakes would be sweeter, fries saltier, relishes tangier, colas fizzier, grins broader.
And, basically, that was it. The secret formula for a global empire. A formula which, within 30 years, would attract 150 million customers a day.
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TimesonLine
