The Fastest Scoop in the East
As a fifteen year old who really liked ice cream, and what
fifteen year old doesn't, it was a perfect job in
a perfect place and at a perfect time of my short yet
somehow still fascinating life. It was
an after school
job in a neighborhood luncheonette. My Mom worked next door as
a courtesy driver for a beauty shop.
She got me the job. It
was a family owned sort of diner - restaurant that specialized in huge sandwiches
and gigantic ice
cream concoctions. The food, all of it,
was better than good. It was extraordinary to the
degree that the Former Iranian President
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad denied that
it ever existed. So it goes
for very fine things. The ice cream was no exception, of
course, and, for that matter, a wonder itself.
In the summer people would line up outside all
the way around the corner. At least a hundred people
would
spend an hour or so talking and smoking and yelling at their kids and generally
having a great time
just waiting to get in.
It was a difficult breaking-in period for me
for several reasons. First of all, there was stage fright. I had
always
been on the other side of the counter. A customer. Suddenly I was on stage and
absolutely
without any idea of what I was supposed to do
or how to do it. I couldn't even hide. You know, fifteen year
olds stand out for their awkwardness anyway.
They're funny that way. All I had to protect me was a white
shirt and pair of trousers and a folded over
white apron tied around my waste. In addition I had a very
heavy plaster cast under my chinos from my
hip all the way down to my ankle. I
tried to sort of swing it
around so that no-one would notice. I had
torn a cartilage playing football for school and it would take a
week or two to heal properly. They told me later that everyone thought I was lame and
were being polite
and not asking me about it. This is a true
story - that's why it's funny!
Fortunately, the proprietors had two sons,
both of whom "worked the fountain" and helped me learn the
tricks I needed to know to perform adequately
and keep up with the customer's demand for sodas and
milkshakes and ice cream delights, There were customers who sat at the fountain itself
on round stools
that rotated - perhaps a dozen or so, and
there was a special railed off space that allowed the waitresses
to access the counter and push their
"dupes" onto a long spindle. These "dupes", duplicate
copies of
customer orders I assume,
were then pulled off the spindle and set up left to right over the syrup
pump
bar, and checked over for fountain items and
filled and placed up on the counter with the
dupe under the order when complete. That was
the procedure and about eighty per cent of the fountain
production. The rest was "take out"
and counter customers. When you started new, you worked take outs
and filled cartons of ice cream to order as
well as scooping ice cream onto cones for the sweltering
masses of people who had been waiting in
another line. When the rush quieted down, I could observe the
owner's sons making the sundaes and waffles
and ice cream and all the fancy stuff. They'd explain it all to
me and show me how to do it. It took a bit of
time. Meanwhile, the two of them found time to play around
with the ice cream and stuff and the
customers would laugh as they tossed it around and squirt each
other with the whipped cream bottles. They
had been doing this for years and had it all down. It was a
circus. They were juggling the ice cream. You
couldn't just start in and do this. These were requirements
that were strictly upper class.
Yet, here I was, at fifteen years old,
finally getting into the majors. Tossing pizza dough, you know? The
grown
up world of real talent where they paid you money for playing ball. It just
can't get any better than
that! So it wasn't long and all the
"oohs and aahs" were coming my
way and I was eating it up. I went for
the glory. From fear and shyness, here I was
now the prima uomo of the ice cream
fountain. The prodigy
- only fifteen years old and easily the
fastest scoop in the east! I would learn shortly that there was more
than that to this job and work in the good
ol' USA.
You think I'm kidding? I could make a
chocolate nut sundae with two large scoops of ice cream, chocolate
syrup, walnuts and whipped cream in under
seven seconds. I was timed. This is true. Standing start.
A black and white ice cream soda (vanilla ice cream - two scoops - chocolate
syrup, seltzer and whipped
cream in under ten seconds. That's fast my
friend. The people sitting at the fountain would watch me and
I could feel their admiration and wonder. It
was great! Serenity and fantasies about the "Ice Cream
Olympics" and girls of course. I was fifteen years old after all.
It was in this state of mind that I arrived
at work one summer afternoon. I was thinking about getting ready
for
the evening rush. Setting up the ice cream so that it would be at exactly the
right temperature that
was needed for the speed scoops we used. Too
cold really slowed you down and too warm was sloppy.
There was a new fellow standing by the grille
area. He was about medium height, thirty five years old or so,
very pale complexion. "Hi, I'm Bob from
Chicago", I shook his hand and wondered about this strange guy
What was he, some sort of hit man or
something. His Moll stood in the background, slightly taller than
Bob in a white waitress uniform. I guessed
they were a couple. They had a day shift which I didn't really
have much to do with at all. The waitresses
would usually get their own drinks and ice creams during the
day. I assumed they were day shift people. "We'll
be working together tonight" he was short and to the
point. "I'll do the dupes, you do the
take outs". He had it worked out. "Was he kidding?", I looked at
it. It
took me four months to stand up under the
pressure of working the dupes. And I had the "net" of the
owners' sons right there to fall back on. I looked
right at him. "Sure", I said without smiling at all. "Go
ahead." "Yeah, go fall right on your face if
that's what you want", I thought.
It turns out that the major leagues of ice cream have more
than one super star. Bob could make an ice
cream soda without using a spoon. My heart totally sunk
watching him pull out thirty years or so of
incredible experience, It was electrical It was all Bob.
Fluorescent tan and all that time with his girl
working restaurants. He
was extremely fast. Yes, faster than even me. He was a pro. I didn't know there
was such a thing. In fact I didn't know the inside of really
having to work to make a living at all. This was
an after-school job my Mom found for me. My Mom and Dad worked of course, but they were
family. It
was different. Bob was one of those guys you read about in
books or saw in movies or on the TV. He and
his girlfriend were "characters". They were
regulars. They belonged, were part of the social - economic
fabric of our country, like Woody Guthrie or Bonnie and
Clyde. Gosh, I was not fair to them. I miss them.
I hope they're still alive and enjoying a retirement in
Florida or something. Rich and healthy and with grandchildren.
After a month or so, Bob came over to me and said,
"Well, you'll be glad to hear that you won't have to
put up with me any more." He explained that he and his girlfriend were
moving on. I was quietly happy
inside to get back to center stage . I shouldn't have been I
should have invited them out to dinner or
something. Oh well, I was only fifteen.
