Ice cream didn’t play a big role in my childhood. Never cared much for cream or shakes. Candy was more my thing—sour apple Jolly Ranchers and Milky Way bars, mostly. But when it came to frozen treats, it was always pineapple sherbet. My babysitter used to take me to the little shop by the park every Friday before I started school. She’d get her treat, I’d get mine—pineapple sherbet in a cone. That was about the extent of my frozen dairy interest.
That stayed true all the way up until about nine years ago when Ed’s Burger Joint was just a few hours from opening, and it hit me—I forgot about milkshakes. Of all things. The burgers were dialed in. The buns were locked. The vibe was right. But I hadn’t touched the shake menu.
My only experience making milkshakes was back when I was waiting tables in college. We had to make our own in the service station, and every server hated when someone ordered one. It slowed everything down and cut into table turns. I didn’t mind it much, but I always felt someone more qualified should’ve been behind the shake machine.
So, there I was, minutes from opening, standing in a grocery store aisle grabbing boxes of Cap’n Crunch and Peanut Butter Crunch. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, too. I picked up some donuts from the local shop down the street, a couple jars of peanut butter, a bundle of bananas, and some malt powder for good measure. I got back, rolled up my sleeves, and two hours later, the Ed’s Burger Joint milkshake menu was born.
We started with a handful of flavors that felt right for a burger joint. A couple of cereal-inspired ones—Cap’n Crunch, Peanut Butter Crunch, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch—made the cut early. There was one with banana and peanut butter we called the Elvis ’77 (fat Elvis is my favorite Elvis). We did a Shipley’s Donut shake because we had the donuts and figured why not. Oreo and Butterfinger were no-brainers. Banana pudding felt like it belonged. And we kept a few basics in there, too—strawberry, chocolate malt, and plain vanilla for the folks who didn’t want all the bells and whistles.
Of everything I’ve ever developed for a menu in my career, nothing—except white chocolate bread pudding—has outperformed the milkshakes at Ed’s when you factor in time spent versus popularity. It was an afterthought. Just something I knew we had to have. A burger joint without milkshakes doesn’t feel like a burger joint.
And Ed’s is a burger joint. Nothing gourmet about it. When I opened my first restaurant in 1987, it was a fine dining concept. That label stuck with me longer than I wanted it to. Every new project I took on came with assumed whispers—“St. John’s opening another fine dining spot.” Crescent City Grill opened in 1990 and folks said it was a fine dining Creole place. It wasn’t. Still isn’t. It’s a casual restaurant. Always has been. Same thing happened in 2011 with Tabella. “Fine dining Italian,” they said. Wrong again. Casual. Comfortable. Just good food and good service.
When we opened The Midtowner, it was, “He’s doing an upscale brunch spot.” Nope. It’s a neighborhood breakfast-and-lunch cafe. A meat-and-three for lunch, plain and simple.
All that to say, with every new concept I’ve opened, folks try to slap a fine-dining label on it. So, when it came time to name this one, I went the other way entirely.
That’s why I named it Ed’s.
It’s a great name, a blue-collar name, a dependable guy, reliable guy name. Everyone likes Ed. A guy named Ed wouldn’t open a fancy gourmet burger place. He would open a joint. It’s perfect. Plus, it only has three letters and an apostrophe on a sign.
The shakes, though—they became the thing. The crazier the combo, the more popular it was. I personally prefer a chocolate malt. That’s just one step above a regular chocolate shake. Nothing wild. But customers wanted wild, and so we delivered.
We leaned into it. We came up with the Chocolate Motherlode—vanilla ice cream, Hershey’s syrup, malt, whipped cream, Oreo dust, and a Hershey bar stuck on top. The whole thing’s served in a cup with Whoppers held on by a ring of fudge. The Candy Shoppe went full tilt with a strawberry shake, topped with whipped cream, Nerds, Pixie Stix, a rainbow lollipop, an Airhead Extreme, cotton candy, and more Nerds for good measure. Sprinkles cover the cup, stuck on with vanilla icing. The Bake Sale was all about cookie dough ice cream, finished off with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, a chocolate chip cookie, and a Rice Krispie treat. And the Dirt Cake shake? That one’s an Oreo shake with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, Oreo dust, two whole Oreos, and a handful of gummy worms for the win. Kids go nuts for it. So do more adults than you'd think. They flew out the door.
It’s less of a milkshake menu and more like we let a group of unsupervised third graders go wild in a gas station.
This past weekend, Southern Miss hosted a regional for the NCAA baseball tournament. Earlier in the day I was entertaining guests at the lake when my phone started lighting up. Text after text about ESPN announcers raving over Ed’s milkshakes.
I switched over to the game and sure enough, they were talking up the Cap’n Crunch and Cinnamon Toast Crunch milkshakes like they were broadcasting from the middle of our kitchen.
It was ten minutes to close, but I called the restaurant to see if anyone could deliver a batch to the stadium. Fifteen minutes later, eight shakes showed up at the broadcast booth, and the commentary crew kept the shake love going all night.
We’ve had media attention over the years, but never during a live sporting event. Didn’t hurt that the game was a blowout, and they needed something to fill the time. Still, it was a proud moment.
Every now and then, I’ll slip into Ed’s and order a chocolate malt—strictly for quality control, of course. I sit in the booth like a regular citizen, nod to the counter, and say, “No circus this time. Just the basics.” No fireworks, no frosting on the rim, no Sour Patch kids clinging to the side. Just chocolate, malt, and a quiet moment of personal reflection.
Truth is, I’m probably overcompensating for a childhood that somehow skipped the milkshake phase entirely. While the other kids were diving face-first into banana splits, I was out there with a scoop of pineapple sherbet like I’d been raised in a retirement community. Not one slurp of a shake until way too late in life. It’s like my sweet tooth got stuck in customs and didn’t make it through adolescence.
So here I am, making up for lost time one chocolate malt at a time. A slow, steady climb toward dessert normalcy. Call it shake reconciliation. Call it frozen penance. Or maybe just a man in his fifties finally learning to live a little—with whipped cream on the side, if necessary.
What I’ve learned is that milkshakes don’t care about age. Kids love the ones piled high with candy because they look cool on Instagram. Grown-ups love them because they remind them of being a kid. That little ice cream shop near the park comes back into focus, and for a moment, it’s like Friday afternoon again, and nothing else matters but the sherbet in your cone.
Onward.
