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their movie star crowd, gaining a fair bit of publicity for the pasta in the process. But it was another zealot for Alfredo’s work, Saturday Evening Post food writer George Rector, who brought it to the American masses. He wrote in his Post column, “Alfredo doesn’t make fettuccine. He doesn’t cook fettuccine. He achieves it.”
    Despite all his achievements, di Lelio decided to hang up his utensils in 1943, selling the restaurant, his recipes, and even his guest signature books and photos of famous patrons. (He did keep his gold fork and spoon, though.) Di Lelio apparently grew frustrated with food shortages brought on by World War II. Nevertheless, his heart must have still been in his artery-clogging dish because in 1950, spurred by some backers, di Lelio agreed to come out of retirement, opening a new restaurant in another part of Rome.
    Both di Lelio’s old restaurant, situated near the famous Piazza Navona, and his new one, located near Emperor Augustus’s mausoleum, confusingly used the name Alfredo. But does it matter? They each served (and continue to serve today) the delectable dish made from the original recipe. One British patron visiting war-torn Rome just after World War II put it best after having a mouthwatering plate of fettuccine Alfredo. Shocked by its quality and decadence, he asked his companion, “Look here, old chap, who has really won the war?”
     
     
    Filet-O-Fish: Religious rules
    Do you ever wonder why a burger joint like McDonald’s went into the fish business? Credit goes to the good churchgoing folk of Ohio.
    The Filet-O-Fish was the brainchild of one of the company’s early franchisees, Lou Groen. In 1958, after working in his father-in-law’s restaurant, the Cincinnati native decided he wanted to start his own establishment. He’d seen ads for two chains: one for McDonald’s with its fifteen-cent hamburgers and the other for a company called Beverly Osborne Chicken Delight. He told his wife that whichever they chose, the pair would be stuck eating a lot of that type of food. Groen then asked which one they should go for. She went with the burgers.
    Although Groen would own forty-three McDonald’s in the Northern Kentucky/Greater Cincinnati area by the end of his career, the early days were tough going. It was just Groen, his wife, and a guy named George cleaning, cooking, and serving at that first shop. When it came to sales, there was also one standout glitch: Those savory all-beef patties were surprisingly unpopular on Fridays. Sadly, they were only bringing in a minuscule seventy-five dollars each Friday. Groen needed to think of something fast.
    In the days before market research, Groen had the bright idea to go to the closest restaurant doing excellent Friday business to figure out what he was missing. So he headed over to Frisch’s, which was the local Big Boy chain, and spied on the customers. He immediately noticed a trend. Instead of burgers or steak or chicken, patrons were buying fish dishes.
    He now understood the situation. His area of Cincinnati was about 87 percent Catholic and, along with abstaining from meat during the forty days of Lent, many devotees also avoided it on Fridays. Groen decided he needed a fish sandwich. He came up with a special batter and a tartar sauce condiment and went to the company’s famed owner, Ray Kroc, to get sign-off on his new creation.
    Proving that even visionaries strike out sometimes, Kroc wasn’t sold. He told Groen he had a nonmeat idea of his own. He called it the Hula Burger, but there was nothing festive about it. The sandwich was simply a cold bun with a pineapple in the middle. Groen knew better than to argue with the boss. Still, he was able to get one concession.
    “Ray said to me, ‘Well, Lou, I’m going to put your fish sandwich on [a menu] for a Friday. But I’m going to put my special sandwich on too—whichever sells most, that’s the one we’ll go with,’ ” Groen told the Cincinnati Enquirer in 2007.