Harry’s is leaving.

The fast food setting seemed staged, but the food didn’t. “We should get a sponsorship from them,” joked one of the editors after the fourteenth time we ordered take out during production week. “Mrmggg Mrmggg,” we agreed.

Harry’s is leaving.

It had few airs along with the youth of the staff and cooking team. Its grime wore a turtleneck, but no one cared about the sticky floors. Our petty cash liked it, too: four Plain Janes and a Banquet burger; half-moon fries; and a bag heavy with plastic ketchup packets. Splurtch.

Harry’s is leaving.

Tucked away down Springhurst near the curved-lake stretch of King, Harry’s needed to be sniffed, not seen: the onion fry of your grandparent’s city, sweet grease fumes snaking out the creaking-sprocket front door.

Harry’s is leaving.

It was a well-known joint, but people still asked:

“Where?”

“That old burger place in Parkdale.”

“That place? I thought it was closed."

“It was, but then it reopened. It was saved. But now it’s closed again.”

“Rent? Condos?”

“A little from column A...”

“Sucks for you.”

“Ya.”

Harry’s is leaving.