BEEHIVES AND FRENCH DIPS

My apartment mate came wandering into my room to feed the turkey vulture some of her breakfast; a hot apple turnover with cold vanilla icecream. Which is one of those American things that while I like it is not something I would ever think of eating unless someone gave me the idea. Her tastes, in all likelihood, were formed by the Woolworth's lunch counter,
That being the nearest thing to a soda fountain when she was growing up.

I knew what soda fountains were, my mother had spoken fondly about them, and I had encountered them in books, while we lived overseas. But I never experienced them myself. They had disappeared by the time I came back to the States. My memories of Woolworth's were buying a Peterson System Standard briar pipe at the tobacco counter.
It was only about twenty five dollars. An enormous amount.

The Woolworth's lunch counter was still there for over a decade longer. I can remember having coffee, a toasted French dip sandwich with fries, and a smoke there.

My apartment mate also really loves rootbeer floats.
Again, something I might have if suggested.
But not indulge in otherwise.

The Woolworth's in Chinatown was small and pokey compared to the big one downtown at Market and Powell. They have both been gone for a long time now, and you can't even tell where they were. The bakeries with lunchcounters no longer exist either. And you can no longer light up after you've eaten unless you step outside and associate with the bums and drug addicts who were once invisible.

Oh heck, boba tea hadn't been invented then, and young ladies were innocent virgins into their eighties. Okay? It was a different world. Barely after the sock-hop and poodle skirt era, hippies still smelled of patchouli, and their moms all had beehive hairdos.


There are extra apple turnovers in the kitchen. I may have one this evening. Probably not with vanilla icecream, though there is a tub of that in the freezer.

I haven't seen a French dip in aeons.



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