During the lunchtime rush at Ollie’s Trolley in Louisville, Kentucky, I sit in the parking lot, listening to the radio, waiting for the rain to die down, so I can make a run for it.

Through the sheets of water flowing down my windshield, I see a skinny white kid smoking a cigarette out front of the place, not giving a damn about the rain, it seems. Three highway workers come roaring into the lot in a GMC pickup, its bed full of orange barrels and cones. One gets out and rushes toward the door, but courteously holds it open for a sharp-dressed senior citizen in a baby-blue blazer who’s on his way out. In one hand, he’s holding a grease-stained paper bag, in the other, a big cup of soda.

That bag reminds me just how hungry I am. I turn off the ignition, pull the brim of my Reds cap down tight, and run like hell.

If you’ve never been to Ollie’s Trolley, it’s a curious thing to stumble across. Yes, it looks like a trolley — albeit one marooned on a sea of asphalt and cinder blocks since it opened 45 years ago. It’s painted red and yellow. Its interior, to venture a guess, could not be more than 250 square feet in size. Every time I come here, it reminds me of the trolley from “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” And while it can’t get you to the Land of Make Believe, it delivers something even better — one of the best hamburgers in the world. At least, that’s what I think.

Inside, shaking the water from my cap, I notice there’s enough room in the kitchen for the five women working that day to perform their duties in relative harmony. One shares an update about a sick friend as she fries burgers on the flat-top, while another listens as she tends a basket of fries sunken in hissing, hot oil. All in all, it seems like the platonic ideal of a family-owned restaurant, all “how you doin’, honey?” and “please come back soon.” I don’t bother looking at the menu before telling the smiling woman behind the register my order, because I always know what I want. An Ollieburger, Olliefries, and a Coke, please. Five minutes later, she hands me a grease-stained bag of my own, and I dash back to my car to eat it. Given that Ollie’s has no seating inside, there’s no other option.