It's Not Just Some Creamy Whip. It's The Dari Bar.

Every time I try to tell an out-of-towner about the significance of the Dari Bar, I get the same “Oh yeah, every small town has a dairy something.” The thing is, Silver Grove is far more than a small town, and the Dari Bar is far more than a milkshake stand. They’ve been the soul of the railroad town for nearly 60 years, and my family has been there for all of it.

My earliest memories consist of summertime neighborhood walks with my Grandpa. My parents both worked, so I would spend my days at my grandparents' place on 2nd Street. Every evening, without fail, Grandpa would take his stroll through the neighborhood. Everyone knew him. I was way too shy to speak to anyone beyond a passive wave, but it felt incredible to be woven into a community where everyone was so tight-knit. There were teachers, mechanics, and retirees – each looking forward to their daily dialogue with Ken Hedges.

Inevitably, we would make our way toward Route 8, and the smell would kick in. Probably French fries. I doubt scientists in a lab could construct a better smell. If the mood was right, he’d give me a look that said “yep, we’re doing this.” We’d join the line of teenagers fresh from baseball practice and neighbors popping in for a burger. It was like church. I’d order my small vanilla cone with a face (sugar-coated pieces that came in the shape of eyes or a mouth that really tied the whole thing together), and we’d be off to finish our walk.  

By the time I was 15, my friends and I were filling out applications to become the next wave of Dari Bar employees. Technically, I was too young to work there, but one day, the owner, Dianne, stopped by Pelle’s on one of our steak nights and asked me if I’d like to join the team. It was a blast. I remember the first day on the job, Dianne told me to fix myself something when my break came. I made myself a hot dog, and she told me I had better make it two. She was easily the coolest boss you could have. 

When the season ended, we came together for a party as we deep cleaned the place. She divided our tips for the year, and let us take home any leftover food. I brought home some jalapeno poppers and proceeded to deep fry them with my Grandpa that night.

As a joke, I wrote “last cup of the 2012 season” on my milkshake and gave it to my Grandma. To my surprise, she cleaned it and kept it on top of her fridge until the day she passed away last April. Every time I saw that cup up there, I would be reminded of how loved I was by her. So much so, when I proposed to my wife, Kat, I ended up taking her to the Dari Bar. Kat loved that my Grandma kept the cup, so I wrote “last cup before we’re engaged” on the inside of her milkshake.  When I asked her to open it, I got down on one knee. Honestly, I think I nailed it.

I’m well aware of my bias toward the Dari Bar compared to the average Creamy Whip type place. It’s a running joke amongst my friends. I’m a homer. Sue me. But even still, even if the offering of the Dari bar is not wildly different from its competitors, it certainly has its own unique fingerprint. 

A fingerprint that has marked the lives of everyone who grew up where and how I did. Most importantly, it’s ours. In that way, it ceases to be a small business and takes the form of a sacred space that conjures memories that reflect a bygone era—an imperfect, but more intimate America. I never had the chance to live it firsthand, but when I drive through town with a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt, it’s pretty close.