And then there was Wendy. Orphaned at an early age, the precocious red-head was raised from her infancy by her Uncle, who was a valued culinary adviser to the King. Wendy grew up in the kitchens of the White Castle, watching the daily routine of burger-making. As she grew a little older, she particularly enjoyed spending time with a grandmotherly worker whose job it was to prepare the hamburger buns for the freshly grilled meat patties. Sitting on a high stool, Wendy would watch in fascination as the woman’s practiced hands separated the bun halves and added ketchup, pickles, onions, and other such ingredients. So efficient was the woman at getting the buns ready, that the grillmaster had a hard time keeping up.
“Where’s the beef?” the old woman would always yell to the harried griller while giving Wendy a friendly wink. Wendy loved the oft-repeated phrase so much that for a time her piping little voice could be heard all over the castle constantly demanding “Where’s the beef?” When this childlike chatter had crossed the line from cute to obnoxious, her Uncle suggested that she play the Quiet Game.
“Now that’s better,” he sighed contentedly as the competitive Wendy tried her best to win the game. It was the quietest three days that the castle had ever known.
Wendy also found favor with the Queen who would frequently invite the girl into the desert kitchen while she, Baskin and Robin worked on their treats. Wendy was permitted to work on her own desert ideas, provided that she didn’t make a mess. That last part was wishful thinking, but the Queen never chided Wendy even when she would find the girl covered head to toe in melted ice cream. After one particularly messy day, Wendy proudly presented the Queen with a cup full of her new desert creation.
“Oh my,” said the Queen, looking at the brown substance within. “It seems that you have invented, er…chocolate ice cream.”
“No,” replied Wendy, “this is different. I call it a Frosty!” The Queen dipped a spoon into the cup and tasted the contents.
“I’m fairly certain that’s chocolate ice cream,” the Queen said kindly. “Or perhaps it’s a chocolate malt…”
“It’s a Frosty,” Wendy said with some impatience.
“Look, my dear,” retorted the Queen, also growing impatient. “I am the Dairy Queen. I know chocolate ice cream when I taste it, and I tell you that you have just made…”
The Queen sighed.