American Food: A Not-So-Serious History by Rachel Wharton & Kimberly Ellen Hall

Author:Rachel Wharton & Kimberly Ellen Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2019-10-08T00:00:00+00:00

O

ORANGE JULIUS

I think the real Julius Freed—as in Orange Julius—may have been a cigar shop owner named Julius Fried from Butte, Montana, at least according to a 1983 story in the Standard, the local paper. If that’s true, then he likely moved (fled?) to Los Angeles after bankruptcy and a couple of arrests for ignoring (encouraging?) the illegal gambling that took place in the back of his flagship store.

Which is funny, though finding the real Freed isn’t that important. Freed did open an orange juice stand at 820 South Broadway in downtown Los Angeles in 1926, when those were common in Southern California. But it was his real estate agent, Willard (Bill) Hamlin, who made it Orange Julius.

Hamlin convinced Freed to carry his secret powdered formula that turns blended orange juice, sugar syrup, and crushed ice into that sherbety, Creamsicle-y goodness. He then invested $6,800 and went into business with Freed and a building contractor named William Larkin.

According to his 1987 La Times obituary, Hamlin had both a sensitive stomach and an interest in chemistry. In retrospect, his real estate background might have been equally important. As with Ray Kroc and the McDonald brothers some thirty years later, Hamlin seemed to predict the future: He and Larkin built beautiful freestanding stores with open counters in parking lots that could take advantage of the automobile, and sold hamburgers and hot dogs with names like the Mongrel and the Pickle Pooch. (He also added a then eyebrow-raising mascot with the tagline “A devilish good drink.”)

Maybe Hamlin was more impressive than Ray Kroc, if you consider that Kroc didn’t also invent the McDonald’s way of making a hamburger.

When Hamlin retired in 1967 and sold the company to International Industries Inc., there were already more than four hundred Orange Julius outlets around the country, plus Canada, Japan, China, Puerto Rico, and several countries in Southeast Asia.

Question any orange Julius freak—they usually grew up west of the Rockies—and you’ll find that it was not just a flavor, but a place. In 1931 in Texas, fans would have followed the ad in the Kerrville Mountain Sun and gone to “see it made on the new Sunkist extractor.” In the 1960s they’d have hung out in the parking lot at the cool zigzag-roofed structures Hamlin and Larkin built across Southern California. And in the 1980s, they would have gone to the mall.

The mall years were great, but they were the beginning of Orange Julius’s decline, at least as a destination. Eventually the shops stopped fresh squeezing oranges: When your product becomes a powder, juice from a box, and a sugar syrup, you don’t need a whole store to make it . . . which is why it was maybe no surprise that Dairy Queen, after buying the company in 1987, eventually started combining the stores.

By 2018 all the Orange Juliuses had essentially become Dairy Queens, the only thing left of the brand being a few items on the beverage menu and a logo on a cup. (I

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