Why haven't jojos made Wikipedia yet?

“It all starts with potatoes” was a headline that I had once read on a billboard somewhere, probably put out by the Idaho Potato Commission. Probably in Idaho. But in this case, it's true.

We have all had a conversation or an experience that came full circle. You know, a topic that started a conversation that led to another that led to another that led to the question: “How did this discussion begin in the first place?” Well jojos are that thing. They are that place where the interchange started, the link from one topic to another, the connective tissue of conversation.

It all started at Liquor Lyle’s. Well, actually it started in the basement deli of Fred Meyer in Salt Lake City Utah in 1997. But I’ll get to that later, because I must mind my jojos. We were sitting in a worn booth in Lyle’s, enjoying some two-for-one PBRs, when the conversation turned to the red plastic baskets of french fried potatoes in front of us.

“Aren’t french fries the best?” one of us asked.

“I think that potatoes are the most versatile food. One of the best food groups really,” said another.

“Potatoes are just a vessel for dairy products,” the third chimed in.

The conversation shifted to all the different ways that potatoes are prepared: french, waffle, curly, crinkle, shoestring, homestyle, steak, mashed, baked, twice-baked, au gratin, potato chips, hash browns, tater tots, latkes, wedges, and of course jojos. Just to name a few.

The potato discussion sparked a warm memory of the Fred Meyer grocery store in Salt Lake City where my friends and I used to go to eat jojo potatoes by the pound. The deli worker was the best. He actually said, “This shit just rips right through me” while making a motion down the front of his chest indicating his esophagus.

We would load up our plates with jojos and FMV (Fred Meyer Value) catsup and gorge ourselves. At that time, it was probably our only meal for the day. Well, aside from the couple of twelve packs of Corona Light from the Circle K on the corner.

From there, the conversation turned to Bill and Nada. Bill and Nada’s Café was a Salt Lake institution: a 24-hour mom and pop restaurant known for its time-warp-like atmosphere, its distinctive recipes (brains and eggs anyone?), the country music on the jukebox, and its colorful staff and patrons. The restaurant’s motto: “We never close.” The waitresses were punky but still donned the 50s style waitress uniforms complete with white mock aprons. They were funny and sassy. On the wall toward the back of the restaurant, there was a large wheel that was spun once a day and if it landed on your seat number, then your meal could be had at a reduced price or maybe even for free.

Bill was usually present during the day, but if not there, he was there in spirit from the mural on the wall to his copious awards and photos. The business cards still had pictures of Bill and his first wife Nada, but everyone knew that Nada was dead and that he had remarried. Numerous rumors had developed about how Nada died and that her ghost still haunted the restaurant and their house across the street.

Bill and Nada’s home—the only house remaining on the block where the super-size Fred Meyer store was built. Apparently, Bill had fought hard to keep his house when all of the others were cleared to make way for the giant superstores. I haven’t been to Salt Lake for some time, but I have heard that the house is now gone. So is the café.

The peculiarity of Bill and Nada’s inspired dialogue about the Mormon influence on Salt Lake City, Mormonism in general, and then, Gilgal Garden. The garden was once sort of a secret garden (it is now a public park) that holds sculptures of such things as a Sphinx of Joseph Smith and a huge Mormon cricket. Very peculiar indeed.

Where the dialogue went from there, I don’t recall. I do know that it drifted and meandered until someone spoke up and said “Didn’t this start with potatoes?”

Yes it did. Jojos in fact.