Biscuit sandwich man of mystery

Listen to this story read by “Matilda”: https://jumpshare.com/share/OEcxuI60rLuZ5waPMaLG

At Tudor’s Biscuit World, customers are on a first-name basis with their favorite biscuit sandwiches.

Several sandwiches at the 46-year-old Charleston, West Virginia chain honor generic state figures—there’s a bacon-and-hashbrown biscuit called the Miner, and the Politician is packed with bologna—but half a dozen of them are supposedly named for Tudor’s first loyal regulars, including Dottie, Tootie, and Mary B.

My favorite is the Ron: sausage, egg, and cheese tucked inside a warm, buttery, homemade biscuit. It’s been my Tudor’s order since elementary school. That’s why I wanted to personally thank the man who inspired it.

Tudor’s likes to cite its biscuit nomenclature as evidence of its community ties, but it’s unclear if the tradition emerged as a loving tribute or helpful shorthand: A company spokeswoman told West Virginia Explorer Magazine that the names arose naturally, as staff grew familiar with frequent customers and came to use their names for their regular orders. Maybe I could ask Ron about it.

Unfortunately, I quickly discovered locating Ron was far more complicated than anticipated. 

When an online search yielded nothing about Ron’s identity, I took my hunt to the West Virginia University Library. After asking for records pertaining to Tudor’s Biscuit World, I received a disheartening email saying staff couldn’t help “given the large parameters of [my] search range.”

Still, I believed the answer might lurk in the historical record. I combed through microfilm of the Charleston Gazette in the 1980s, hoping for a clue: a full name, a face, maybe even a profile. After what seemed like endless scrolling sessions, I gave up. 

Of course, it’s possible Ron and his biscuit preferences were never properly documented. Thinking someone at the company might remember him, I ended up on the phone with John Tudor himself, son of founders Bill and Mae Tudor. Speaking to him, I was surprised by my nerves. A genuine West Virginia success story—a fast food celebrity, really—was on the line.

Tudor offered what little he could remember: “He was living in the city last I heard, but what, we’re talking 40 years ago.”

Not much to go on. But then came the break I needed.

“Ron was a guy that I think worked for the education department in Charleston,” Tudor said. “The building was right across from the first store we ever opened.”

Aha!

It wasn’t a last name or a phone number, but it was a lead to take to the Charleston Education Department’s communications office.

There was a hit.

A single Ron appeared in their system. A full name. We had it.

Relief washed over me. Surely this story would end with a phone call, a laugh, perhaps even shared biscuits. Confident I had our man, I dialed his number.

Voicemail.

No problem, I thought. I left a message explaining who I was, how I found him, and how a lifelong appreciation for Tudor’s biscuits had sparked my search.

Hours passed. Then days.

Nothing.

Maybe the number was outdated? Maybe Ron was out of town? Maybe Ron simply didn’t want to talk about biscuits with a stranger.

Time was running short, so I did what any determined amateur investigative journalist would do: I tracked down potential relatives and rang the first contact I found. My hopes soared when someone picked up. Unfortunately, the person was quick to inform me that I had the wrong number. 

I called another number on my list and got voicemail again. I left my message and crossed my fingers.

One last contact remained. My final hope.

The phone rang. And rang. Then, there was a voice on the end of the line. 

“Hello?”

My heart raced.

I introduced myself, divulged my biscuit-fueled dream, and explained how I came to find his number. The person listened to my spiel, and then—as I awaited answers to all my Ron questions—I heard a click. 

Silence.

Maybe Ron and his family had no interest in talking about the past. Maybe an out-of-the-blue call from a lady talking about Tudor’s Biscuit World sounded more like a scam than food journalism. Or maybe I never had the right Ron to begin with.

I like to think that’s the case. To me, Ron has always represented comfort and consistency—and that biscuit always will.