Nostalgia for the Lunch Counter

The lunch counter has a distinct place in the history of American restaurants for the 20^th century. Evolving from inns, pubs, taverns of the 19^th century, lunch counters developed in many working class town’s main blue lane highway strips and downtown centers of commerce for the white collar crowd on a budget. Marshall Field’s on State Street even famously held a lunch counter until the early 1970’s.

Look around at those spots in 2012 and you would be hard pressed to find the lunch counter style restaurant. I can think of only two off the top of my head with Manny’s Delicatessen in Chicago and Primanti’s in Pittsburgh, the home of the stuffed sandwich. Why have these staples of the American work week gone into near extinction? Fast food and the adamant desire for convenience in the modern world has subjugated many sit-down style restaurants and diners to bankruptcy as hungry customers refused to sacrifice a decent meal, albeit sometimes a greasy one, for cheap and gluttonous with the same flavors repeated for stockholder satisfaction. 

Historians do know of the affect Jim Crow segregation had in the United States with signs that read across the front glass “White’s Only” or “Colored Café.” That disgraceful sliver of America reaffirms the salad bowl ideology of separation between ethnicities in America, instead of the melting pot which America is taught to be but only found in utopia. The four black students of A & T college in Greensboro, North Carolina, shattered this long standing rule on February 1^st, 1960 with the first of what would be many sit-ins, defying the Jim Crow laws that had denied them a spot at the counter and a mere cup of coffee. We also know from history that many of these locations in the city centers fell prey to white flight, a term associated with white citizens flocking to the suburbs from 1945-1975. By 1970 alone, 95% of the American suburbs were populated with whites only, on occasion some cities handing out separate housing applications based upon race. Guess which ones they accepted?

When the American city saw jobs outsourced and undermined, as well as a general hallowing out of identity and citizenry, the majority of the population that remained were poor whites, Latinos and almost all of the black population of America in areas like the south side of Chicago, known by another name as the black urban capital of the United States. Businesses went under when this shift occurred. Poverty saturated inner-city America in the absence of this prosperity and balanced housing values with names like Chicago, Detroit, New York, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh. The lunch counters shut down, hanging signs on their front doors that read “Closed. Thank you for all of your business throughout the years.” 

In 1986, the lunch counter model went corporate when the original Johnny Rocket’s in Los Angeles melded the drive-in and lunch counter idea to classic American images of 1940-1960. Decades later over three hundred locations propped up around the United States in shopping malls and airports, reminding you that the 1950’s hadn’t passed on, they were just on hiatus whilst it was being prepared in the kitchen. I remember even the Eddie Rocket’s location that friends and I frequented for a decent burger in downtown Limerick, Ireland when I lived there in 06-07 for my Master’s degree at the University. There, like the Johnny Rocket’s location I visited this past Sunday at Old Orchard mall in Skokie, had the Pax Americana lunch counter look down. 

A fair LivingSocial deal propped up a few weeks before for Johnny Rocket’s, allowing you to get twenty dollars worth of food for only ten bucks. A fair compromise, even though I knew that each time I step into one of those corporate lunch counter chain’s I feel as if I am back on the set of Mel’s Diner in one of my favorite films, American Graffiti, the father later ripped off by Happy Days. Classic Rock-n-roll buzzes through the restaurant. Noticing all of the red seated booths, covered in clear plastic were taken up, Ally and I sat at the lunch counter. Had I dove for the chair, I might have not even written this article with the reflection of why the lunch counter went the way of the Big Bopper and Buddy Holly. Stainless steel was everywhere, as was a whole side industry of Coke’ Cola signs of the Normal Rockwell-esque American families, blonde women in Army uniforms, and what Ally thought was a young version of Ms Norma Jean, aka Marilyn Monroe. 

None of the classic faces were of any color, save white. That wasn’t true of the counter we sat at with multiple races, from black to Indian. I felt a satisfaction to realize those student’s at A & T College achieved their dream of racial unity, though I am not sure that Johnny Rocket’s was the result. 

The food was passable, with a watery Cookies and Cream milkshake and plastic fries. I admit the Mushroom Swiss burger I ate was tasty and was as greasy as I remember all those nights I had imbibed far too many pints in a Limerick pub years back. I looked behind the counter to the open kitchen to see every waiter, bus boy and cook was Latino. The reality that majority of kitchen work in America, even there at the pre-packaged Johnny Rocket’s, is done by Latin American immigrants, searching for their piece of the American dream, taking jobs not a single white face in those Coke ads would consider taking. As the American lunch evolves, or devolves for that matter, I wonder if race relations and the conditions we allow our fellow citizens to be subjected to will again place a role in shaping that change.

Ryan and Heather's Wedding (my speech and pics afterward)

My heart sent nervous pangs throughout my chest and vein of my neck on Saturday morning, April 14^th, when I had no reason to be. I, as the best man to my brother, was not getting married. There will little organizational issues I had to deal with aside from making myself look presentable, just short of James Bond classy in my tuxedo. By the actual wedding day, if planned accordingly, the cogs and wheels turn themselves with people in their proper places, if not a minute or two late. Perhaps the fact that the box that held Heather’s wedding was in my possession from the previous night made me realize how unorganized I could be despite my best efforts and that I could be the cause for ruining the special day. “And now the rings,” the preacher would say. There I would stand, at the head of all the groomsmen, in panic sweats as I realized I left it at home. With compulsion reserved for medication, I checked every half hour that the ring inside that tiny felt box was in one of my pockets. 

I had then another concern prop up the previous night which was far more of a logical concern. My allergies had given birth to another painful sinus infection, straining my vocal chords, dizzying my head enough to cancel my impartial Wednesday night lecture on economic justice, not being able to truly declare why my salary as a teacher is pathetic.  Mid way through my lecture and class discussion about the 1970’s on Thursday night at the College of Lake County, my voice begins to strain and then, like someone flipped a switch, my voice dropped out. My greatest concern was not that I wouldn’t finish my lecture; screw feeling guilty, I’ve taught feeling ill more times that I can count. I had a great fear, with every painful sip of cold water to sooth my throat, that I wouldn’t be able to deliver what my family expected to be a good best man speech at the reception.

These concerns were a microcosm of the larger truth about the wedding – the ceremony and the reception can become more about everyone else and less about the bride and groom. Though they are afforded the opportunity to be selfish and showered with affection, hopefully earned from having good hearts and minds, weddings are parables for life – things that are to go as planned will be just as wonderful, backwards, and go better than most circumstances of life. I cannot stand bridezillas who scream about how a perfect day will be ruined by the slightest miscue or how a groom can be a useless sack in a fine suit who can’t wait to get drunk at the wedding. My brother Ryan and his now wife, Heather, could not be more opposite than these archetypes.  Only so much can be controlled. We have to step on the train eventually. When Ally calmed me down the previous day and I imbibed the borderline safe levels of anti-biotics and Aleve, I knew still I had to deliver in a few hours when I was called up for my speech.

Heather had used her creative flair and passion for American and Victorian antiquity to write everything from the calligraphy on the wedding placards to setting the ceremony at Lake Forest College, her alma mater. The five groomsman and I, along with my father and Heather’s Dad, Bill, we assembled ourselves across the street at the turn of the 20^th Century mansion, the Glen Rowan House. Our clumsy fingers fumbled around with the flowers we attempted to pin to our tuxedo jackets without drawing blood. Many minutes of pacing the mansion followed, our eyes on Ryan, trying to make him laugh through his obvious nervousness of taking the plunge he had so looked forward to. The same I’m sure was happening as my future sister-in-law collected herself with her reliable bridesmaids in the choral room next to the chapel. We classy gents felt as if we could punch a notch in our masculine cards with the 15 year Highland Park scotch we ceremoniously drank and toasted Ryan with. Ryan, Kyle and I all had a good laugh when my other brother, Eric, mistakenly downed the scotch, forgetting that the peaty deliciousness was meant to be sipped.

There in the Lily Reid Holt Memorial Chapel, under elaborate dark wooden beams and original Louis Tiffany glass, Ryan and Heather’s smiles rubbed off on all of us. My friend Nick told me my Dad and Heather’s father were tearing up – even tough men cry at the weddings of their children all you hard asses out there.

“And now the rings,” the preacher said after his long parable of Jesus Christ with the wine at a wedding in Canaan. 

Delicately from my pocket, I held the ring out for Ryan to take. Kim, the maid of honor, handed Ryan’s black and gold ring over. To their credit, the bridesmaids with their hair styled and light golden dresses shimmering, caught the eye of every guy in the room. Chad, who stood behind me, amongst the rest of us chic gentlemen, likely made an impression in his Army dress uniform he wore from the airport he flew into that morning. My first stressful responsibility that day accomplished, I noticed how I could not stop smiling as the vows were sealed and Heather Jean Putman became Heather Titus and my brother married to the love of his life. 

The reception was held at the Highland Park Community House, ten minutes down Sheridan Road from the chapel. I arrived late having to drive my Mother (who looked quite radiant), Eric, and the new Mr and Mrs Titus. Heather, stressed from the ups and downs, calmed once we cued up irreverent jokes that fit her sense of humor. Once arriving, I made a bee-line for Ally. We gallivanted around, saying hello to friends and family at the twelve tables, and sipping drinks from the open bar, a must at a wedding providing you know less than ten percent of your family and friends won’t be taking off their button down shirts by the time the dancing starts. 

Bill Putman gave a ten minute speech, loaded with delightful parables about the quality of the character of my brother and how as a father he possesses all the love for his first born. Our champagne glasses raised, we hundred and ten of us toasted to the health, wealth and happiness of Ryan and Heather. The DJ, loud enough to for all to hear with his mic, called out…

“And now I’d like to welcome to the mic, the best man, Steven Titus.”

There was no time to be nervous. In truth, I’ve spoken to thirty students a class for four years now, as well as given a speech to over five hundred people – why should I sweat? Stepping to the end of the bridal party table, I took the microphone. Making a few lighthearted jokes about my strained voice, which had improved by that point, I softened the crowd to my style. At my side, placed on the table, I looked down on occasion at a pdf of my written speech which I loaded onto my smart phone. The laughter was loud at stories of Ryan as a child and the impression that the lovely Heather can make on a room. I cared about those as much as the sincerity for my love of my one-of-a-kind brother and my friend, Heather. The applause at the end was comforting, but the kind words of family, friends and strangers (Heather’s side) of my speech filled me with satisfaction. 

You ask if this is also a food blog, what about the meal? I’ll feed you here baby birds. Heather and Ryan had Froggys in Highwood cater the wedding in a buffet style. The beef bourguignon was a tad salty, which wasn’t a carnal sin for the brown sauce was delightful when soaked up with the rolls and large decorative pats of butter. My favorite was the salmon, covered with a creamy orange butter sauce. The carrots and zucchini were al dente, something I’m not a huge fan of as this wasn’t a vegetable dip. I didn’t try the salad with the vinaigrette, which I don’t regret too much. A light fettuccine with parsley, along with black pepper covered potato hash were wonderful accompaniments to the dish, and appropriate to burn off later with the dancing that sent many into shedding layers. I wish I had tried a slice of the decadent white cake with a berry cream sauce. By that time I was having too much fun dancing with guests my age. Ally, who looked lovely in a blue dress and heels that made her taller for once, danced our beginner salsa moves, even at one point making friends and guests laugh with our Michael Jackson impersonations as Billie Jean played. I take my hat off to Heather for she busted a move all night. Honors should also be doled out to Nick who was breaking out dances that were funny, fierce and coordinated. I remembered that was still much of the guy I had known since high school. 

When did I realize the bride and groom were finally united – when they took their first dance. All our eyes on them, they slow waltzed to a tune I cannot recall. I was smiling far too much by that point; and no, it wasn’t because of the open bar. I didn’t start drinking until after the speech. 

The other day, on the balcony of my rented condo in Arlington Heights, I watched a few 747 jets soar into the skies from the nearby O’Hare airport. Ryan and Heather would be on one of those flights to London for their honeymoon.  I would be insincere if I said I wasn’t jealous of their week there, followed by a week in Ireland. Having had spent time in those lands, touched and matured by their magic, I leaned on my balcony to watch a plane fly east, hoping Ryan and Heather would be loving things together in the years ahead. 

 

My best man speech

I am deeply honored to speak for my brother and his lovely wife, my friend Heather, not only because Ryan chose me as his best man, but because as the oldest brother, I think I know best.

There has been six years since Ryan and Heather first met and started dating. Six years not so much of fairy tales, although Ryan has been known to write a lovey-dovey poem now and then. There have been six years of jokes, so off-the-wall, goofy and inside between them that we all know we can hear their combined earsplitting laughter in another room. In these six years, I know I have consistently had the pleasure of their company.

Long ago Ryan and Heather realized that it was not so much important that they simply loved each other but loved things together. Their honeymoon destination, of which I am insanely jealous of, is but a shared tale of loving things together. We can see how they look at us now with love, and how they will evolve for the benefit of each other.

Ryan – what fortune I have had in you being one of my two beloved brothers. I doubt no one in here has a bad thing to say for your kind, loving and all around easy going character. I have no fear for the day you become a father, own your first home, accomplish your greatest dreams and, first of all on this journey, take a step on that plane to Europe with Heather as your wife.

Heather – Becoming friends with your brother’s girlfriend and then fiancé could not be more opposite to the norm but somehow you and I still have that friendship. I think of hammering out writing ideas together, foraying into a new restaurant experience and being able to pick up a conversation at the drop of a hat, even if it had been a month since we last spoke. Your creative ingenuity and zest for adventure in life matches that true affection you have for my brother more than I have ever seen. Thinking of you now, I cannot help but to recall when Ryan took you out for drinks to meet a few of his work buddies at CDW. “Guys…this is my fiancé, Heather!” Ryan said. One look at her and in unison they spoke with a nod. “Nice work, Titus.”

I’m also reminded of when Ryan came to visit me when I lived in Ireland five years back. In time, we took a three day trip to London. After disembarking, we found our hostel. As we ambled around the avenues of one of the greatest cities in the world, we found this little pub to share a good scotch over around the midnight hour. “I think I want to marry Heather,” he told me. “You know for sure?” I asked. Ryan held his glass up and clinked mine with that smirk he’s had since a child. “Of course I do. She’s the one.” To be honest, after all we had to drink that night, I am surprised I remembered any of that conversation.

I mean, the funny thing about this is…I still see Ryan at times as the same goofy guy who when he was three years old he walked out of our sights at home and sauntered up into the neighbor’s kitchen to sit at their table because he smelled cooked bacon. But of course, he evolved. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to me that night for what he was in those first couple of years – a selfless, clever and loving kid – all of those great virtues would become magnified as a man. As I saw that night in London all the way to today when they have become husband and wife, Ryan’s promise of love for Heather continues. I find it fortunate to be in the pleasure of their company.

So I ask you all to raise your glasses for a toast – to Ryan and Heather!

The Nostalgic Steakhouse

The United States has several restaurant traditions, most of which include fast food, Americana diners, and lunch counters to name a few. Strategically located in each county across this nation are steakhouses, a tradition dating back to the post-world war two era of America. Beef was plentiful, citizens had money in their pockets, and an ideal of elegance of a night out for fine plates of beef with sides, comforted by waves of cocktails for ladies and whiskey for men, emerged. Being a fan of scotch, steak and taking my lady out, I went to Wildfire, the chain that is done up to appear as if they came out of a Mad Men episode.

The Wildfire chain has a reputation for a special occasion. Inventing one wasn’t necessary to use up gift cards – Ally had a bright job opportunity in her near future. Reservations at three of the Wildfire locations around us presented times at 4:45 (what are we, 80?) and 10pm (what are we, 20?). We managed to get lucky and sneak in around 8:45 at the Lincolnshire Wildfire. For that late, and in the burbs, the place was hoping with Passover diners, and those who wanted to feel classy when they boozed up as opposed to walking across the street to slum it at the Cubby Bear. 

I am not a man who loves top of the line cuts of beef like Filet Mignon. My tastes are for the meat with a fair amount of marbled fat to give flavor. Ask me I wouldn’t be able to recall the last time I had Filet Mignon. Years back, at the Brown Derby in Disney Studios at Walt Disney World, my best friend urged me to try a medium rare slice of Filet Mignon. The piece, red and appropriately cooked around the edged, looked frightening to me, considering before then I had grown up with hockey pucks of well done meat for years. My mother feared seeing a slight pinkish hue to any meat – beyond pork, I’ve realized how egregious this is. Chefs at steakhouses will oblige to serve the well-done order to the customer. Thereafter, they won’t hesitate to sniff at the request of stupidity in their mind. The soft texture of the meat I plucked from my friend’s fork opened my eyes and brought me out of the cave.

The standby at Wildfire was prime rib, considering one I had at the Chicago location a year back had me making groaning sounds of delight, enough to make one turn and stare out of curiosity. As much of a man I am about repetition with plates of Mexican, Italian, American and comfort foods that I still haven’t grown tired of, I had to stick to my experimental guns and venture out. “I’ll take the prime cut of filet mignon.”

Ally had her requisite bowl of French onion soup. I had mixed results of the shrimp and crab chowder by location. One more chance didn’t hurt. That night, any concern I had was blocked out with that soup. I dipped slices of bread laden with butter into the creamy broth that retained minuscule pieces of shellfish.  “I could just eat this – all night,” I told the waiter, forgetting my manners and speaking with a mouthful. The glass of Glenfiddich scotch I had kicked in. 

The edges of my filet mignon were a disappointment. A char, similar to that of meat being left on or near charcoal for too long, was etched into the fine muscle. The interior layers held the steak gold, tender and melt in one’s mouth, thanks to the light pour of beef broth onto the plate. Until I reached those parts, I was convinced that Ally’s choice of the New York strip steak was the winner at the table. My creamed spinach was lacking flavor and retained a bitterness left by the green. Perhaps a measure of sherry or vermouth could have muted that batch. I should have gone with the mashed potatoes Ally ordered as her side.

True disappointment, much more to my own fault and not Wildfire’s, was at the end of the meal. My eyes lit up at the sight of the special desert – Door County Cherry Pie ala’ mode, supplies limited. When I placed my order at around 9:30, the waiter sighed and clasped his hands together. 

“We ran out an hour or so ago. Too many requests.” 

Damn! I’d have to wait a few months for further pie excellence with a trip up there this summer. In all I realized Wildfire, in any steakhouse chain or small business steakhouse, can serve disappoint as well as a reputation for success. Would I return? Of course –what, you think I would become a vegan?