Ray Kroc

Visions of McDonald's restaurants dotting Crosstown all over the country paraded through my brain.

In each store, of course, were eight multi-mixers whirring away and proddling a steady flow of cash into my pockets.

Even now, he was still thinking about multi-mixers.

The next morning, we went back and watched them open again.

This time, he paid attention to the french fries.

To most people, he wrote, a French fried potato is a pretty uninspiring object.

It's fodder, something to kill time chewing between bites of hamburger.

That's your ordinary French fry.

But the McDonald's French fry was an entirely different league.

He watched them peel the potatoes carefully to leave a little skin for flavor, cut them into strips, dump them in cold water, and stir until the water went white with starch.

Then they would rinse them, then fry them in fresh oil.

It seemed simple enough.

After the lunch rush, he sat down with the brothers.

I've been in the kitchens of lots of restaurants and drive-ins, he told them.

I've never seen anything equal to the potential of this place.

Why don't you open a series of units like this?

There was silence.

Mac McDonald turned in his chair and pointed up to a hill overlooking the restaurant.

See that big white house with the wide front porch?

That's our home.