Mr. Smiley's is a right of passage. The fast-food burger and stuff joint deals with loneliness, materialism, identity, appearance, freedom, and love with cheese and smiley sauce.

Doesn't matter if you're burnt out with life or want a post-coitus reward; Mr. Smiley's is there at your side. The menu is extensive. Many folks order the double Smiley sandwich, curly fries, and shakes. Some opt for the cheese pot pie on a stick.

More than the Big Barn Burger, Smiley fries, and syrupy orange soda, we judge Mr. Smiley's on two things, their customer service, and Super Smiley with cheese.

The service, straight forward and cut to the chase. If there is disdain in the employee's demeanor, don't take it personally. And don't be scared someone will spit in your food. It's how it is.

Behind closed doors, Mr. Smiley's offers people of all kinds 2nd, 3rd, 4th chances in life.

And as for the burger itself, it's respectable. A large unadorned half-pound of sloppily placed ground beef carries just the right amount of grizzle at the edge.

The uncouth thing with American cheese, a squishable potato bun, pickle, chopped onion, and a slice of beefsteak tomato one degree riper than what you'd find at a supermarket is aggressive and to the point.

But even on the most primal level, Mr. Smileys is satisfying.