Egg Cream: So why is it called that?
Leafing through the Jewish Journal, the article almost leaped into my lap. It was all about the egg cream. But not yet. At about age nine, I had earned the privilege of walking the neighborhood alone. One day, down to Avenue H and Rugby I went, crossing the street, making a left, and making a beeline for Lou and Al’s candy store. How well I remember it.
Push open the glass door, step down three steps. To the left was a big wooden box, divided by glass partitions. That’s where the candy was and on top of it the cash register; an old one, like you see in the movies. Large, metal, full of levers that had coin numbers on them. The rectangular glass window that showed you what was rung up and how much you owed. The register was there for a reason. If you were going to shoplift candy you had to do it right under either Lou or Al’s eyes. It wouldn’t have been a wise idea. Army buddies, they were not to be messed with.
Passing the comics was a phone booth, which will be a subject of another story, and beyond that a back area with tables and chairs. Across from the comics was the soda fountain, again like the movies. Marble, with fountains of syrup and soda that one of the guys “jerked” into a glass. Below them were the bins of ice cream. The counter sat I guess about 8. I loved sitting at the counter. Made me feel like a big boy. I was there depending on how my allowance was holding up, I had either a cherry-vanilla ice cream soda replete with whipped cream and a cherry on top, or a Lime Rickey, which started out life as an alcoholic drink but got converted during Prohibition, or my favorite, a Cherry-Lime Rickey. And they knew, always with an extra squeeze of cherry for me–no cost.