Across the street from my elementary school sat Babe and Frank’s. The Soda Shoppe was typical for the time. Glass front. Green screen door. The screen is pushed in from years of slamming and banging wear and tear. The oak door is swung back against the wall and out of sight not to be closed until the end of the day. A ratty runner that might once have also been green is in a narrow strip down the center of the aisle. A glass case, on the right, framed in steel on top of which sits the cash register is just inside the door. On the left, a jukebox and three or four booths along the wall. At the back, in the center, the runner ends just this side of a dark corridor that probably leads to storage and the back door. Opposite the booths were two or three pinball machines and the rest of that side was all counter seating. There was a space between the end of the counter and the glass case to pass through.
The year was
1966. I was in the sixth grade.
The usual was
a cheeseburger and fries, and a Strawberry Ice Cream Soda with Butter Pecan Ice
Cream. Fritos to take home, unless it was the beginning of the school year. Because
school started in late Fall, we’d often stop at the Fruit and Vegetable shop in
the middle of the next block to reach into a freezing cold barrel of brine for
a dill pickle or pick a giant pomegranate from the stack to eat as we walked
home.
Frank has
fried a mound of steak ‘Philly’ style. Deftly chopped with two spatulas, and
oil shot out of clear mustard squeeze bottle made for squirting condiments on
food. Steam rises from the grill. Babe is wiping tears from her eyes as she chops
the last of the white onions to be grilled right next to the steak for a tasty
addition.
Babe, in her starch white waitress’s uniform with dyed jet-black hair on her head, in a slightly whipped sprayed stiff up-do that in the heat of the restaurant would never last in any other particularly formal hairstyle. She is short, slim, and at least 40 years old – in my eyes.
Wearing lots of makeup, but, thankfully, no
blue eyeshadow. Her eyelids darkened on the top and the bottom with black
eyeliner and fake eyelashes set perfectly upon each eyelid. Her eyebrows were drawn
perfectly where they should be as she tweezed them all but close to the center which
she used as a reference point.
She wore too red
lipstick that she refreshed whenever she got a moment between taking orders and
running the cash register. Her pancake base makeup was just a smidgen too dark
so where it ended under her chin was a faint line before her neck began. She
wore simple gold earrings like brass buttons in her ears. Her mezuzah, a subtle
symbol of Judaism that she wore on a thin, gold chain around her neck, was her
only other adornment. The mezuzah was real gold. You could tell. She wore
support hose and black flats.
She would call
out hot food orders to Frank from the register, and then she would make the
hoagies. She would chop onions, shred lettuce, chop tomatoes and refill the
pickles. There’s nothing like an authentic Philadelphia Hoagie. It’s not just
the lunchmeat and the variety of condiments including oil and vinegar and
Italian seasoning on the top. It’s also the BREAD.
Rosie was the
other waitress at Babes and Franks. She wore a little waitress cap and her hair
was always in a neatly coifed flip. Her cap sat in the center at the back of
her head pinned carefully so as not to move. It looked more like a nurse’s cap
but I think they might have ALL been nurse’s caps at the time. Rosie was, as
they called it then, stacked.
Dramatic breasts and hips and a small waist. She was easily 5’9” tall. Her
uniform fit her like a glove, just tight enough to compliment her shape, but
without fear of a rip or a split. And just sexy enough to make the teenage boys
hormones rage.
In contrast to
Babe, her makeup was perfectly appointed. Not too much eye makeup. No tell-tale
line between where her foundation ended and her neck began. Only a hit of blush
and fresh bronze lips. She wore no jewelry, smacked gum like a teenager,
wisecracked with the boys and was incredibly sympathetic to the girls. After
all, everybody had hormones!
So Babe worked
the counter and the register and made cold food. Rosie waited tables, and Frank
grilled. On any given day, at about 12:15, there were easily 50 people in a
space meant to hold 25, 30 (if we sat on laps.) We all got served, we all got
to eat, and rarely was anyone late from lunch to return to school across the
street.
