Thanks to Google's outdated satellite map, I can still call up an aerial image of Zingburger and imagine they're still serving up fries and gravy underneath that sexy circular lid. But the reality is that Zingburger is no more; it was demolished this past summer without a fight.
Not enough zing to inspire us, I guess.
In Seal Beach, Calif., concerned citizens have saved another 1950s-era eatery with distinctive architecture from demolition, this one the beloved umbrella-themed Parasol diner - it's going to survive as a new link in the retro-themed Mel's Drive-In chain. But, here at home, there was nothing to stop the wrecker's ball from taking down the lovely zig-zaggy carousel of Zingburger.
Maybe it was because the Zingburger name had already vanished, replaced by the charmless "Chicken & Rib Shack."
So, I'd like to say farewell, Zingburger, on behalf of all North Yorkers and Scarboroughites, since your border-straddling location meant you diplomatically doled out the greasy goodies to both former boroughs.
I doubt I could have said much of anything a few moths ago, when a drive up Victoria Park between Eglinton and Lawrence Avenues caused me to do a double-take when I noticed that the jaunty silhouette fronting the strip mall at Arncliffe Crescent had been replaced with a stain on the asphalt.
I guess the shop owners whose storefronts were blocked by Zingburger's bulk are happy to see the sun again after all these decades, but I can't accept that I'm the only Scarborough son who's sorry to see it go.
Maybe getting romantic about a hamburger stand is silly, but I ask: if Johnny's, Harry's, Square Boy, Apache, the Satellite, Dangerous Dan's or People's disappeared tomorrow, would it make a dent in your mental map of the city? Would your neighbourhood seem a little darker for the demise?
I won't miss the actual burger - heck, it was just two patties with the cheese slice fired in the middle for rapid melting - but I will miss the zingy architecture.
In the glass-and-steel crown lording over the weeds of its parking lot fiefdom, you could gaze up from its cozy, mini-jukebox-equipped booths at the undulating, folded-plate ceiling - with original sparkly paint and pin-holed light fixtures - or look through the massive windows to see if it had stopped raining.
I imagine when it opened in the mid-1960s it was a drive-in, since it looked to be designed for roller-skating waitress-accessibility, but when I discovered it as a 1980s New Wave-obsessed teenager, it was simply an alternative to Steak Queen up the street. While we ate at "the Queen" more often, my memories of Zingburger are more vivid because it was an example of California "Googie" architecture.
As I have written before, the postwar era's obsession with the automobile meant that the buildings themselves had to become signs for fear of being lost in the whizzing panorama of images through the windshield.
In other words, a swoopy lantern-like building got noticed; in California, the attention-getting kings were architects Louis Armet and Eldon Davis, designers of just about every Jetsons-esque coffee shop and drive-in except, ironically, the one that gave the style its name, Googie's on Sunset Blvd. (John Lautner, 1949) next to the famous Schwab's Drug Store in Los Angeles.
While there was no Armet & Davis in Toronto, the style arrived via chains like Big Boy and, to a lesser extent, on TV sets showing the space-age architecture of Disney's Tomorrowland. That a few local burger-preneurs asked architects to come up with something similar is no surprise.
What is surprising, to me anyway, is that no love is lost when one of these funny little buildings bites the big one.
Will Orillia's famous Sundial - another round Googie-riffic diner that's been sitting empty under lock-and-key for years - be next to fall?
Maybe we're not fond of Googie architecture because it's not our own; maybe that's the problem with the modernist movement in general - how can a style, born simultaneously in dozens of cities all over the world, stir our locally-obsessed hearts? Or maybe it's yet another reminder that architecture isn't very important to us.
When the historically-designated Georgian row house Walnut Hall was bulldozed on the Victoria Day weekend, Architectural Conservancy of Ontario president Catherine Nasmith, Heritage Toronto chair Peter Ortved and Tony Stappells, president of the Toronto Historical Association, wrote: "Great cities are made up of layers of important places, each generation adding their best. Buildings are more than private property: They are part of the public realm.
"Let's have landmarks, not landfill."
Comparing Walnut Hall to Zingburger isn't my intention; rather, it's to underline that buildings belong to all of us, even greasy spoons with enough architectural merit to become local landmarks.
Architect Lloyd Alter, who posted Ms. Nasmith's essay on Treehugger.com, wrote: "It isn't just historically notable buildings that should be preserved; perfectly boring and ordinary buildings from past eras make up the texture of our cities, and most have the bones to support renovations into modern, energy efficient and useful structures. Yet depreciation for tax purposes and high property taxes often encourage owners to demolish rather than preserve."
I don't know for sure, but I suspect it was something just like Mr. Alter suggests that caused my little zing-thing to fall and dent my mental map of the city.
The King of Zingland is dead, and I shall miss its regal parking lot presence.
Speaking of underappreciated architecture, everyone is invited to celebrate the release of Concrete Toronto: A Guide to Concrete Architecture from the Fifties to the Seventies on Nov. 1, 2007, at 7 p.m. in the Empire Lounge (50 Cumberland St.). This Coach House publication, edited by Michael McClelland and Graeme Stewart, contains two essays by your humble Architourist.
Dave LeBlanc hosts The Architourist on CFRB Wednesdays
during Toronto at Noon and Sunday mornings. Send
inquiries to .
Dave LeBlanc