i see my mary ann walking away

The other night, just after we finished dinner, I asked Mrs. Pincus what she would like for dessert. I'm sure we had some cookies in our pantry or a partial container of ice cream in the freezer. Mrs. P looked at me and — as she has replied to that question a thousand times before — said, "Hot Fudge Mary Ann." That reply may have zero meaning for you, but I knew exactly what she wanted.

Way back in the pre-casino Atlantic City of my youth, there was a little ice cream shop tucked into the first floor storefront of a block of apartments. This little establishment, located just a few blocks before the Ventnor City municipal boundary, was a throwback to a long gone era. Inside were dark wood, high back booths along one wall and a long, sliver-flecked Formica counter — complete with spinny stools upholstered in seafoam green vinyl — along the opposite wall. Between the two seating accommodations was a narrow tiled walkway, barely wide enough to allow tray-balancing waitresses and about-to-be seated patrons to pass each other without someone getting a face full of whipped cream. The laminated menu boasted old-timey treats like ice cream sodas, banana splits and pie ala mode — all hand scooped, hand-assembled and hand-delivered.

 If you grew up in the Philadelphia area and spent a portion of your summers "down the shore" in "America's Playground, you know the place I'm talking about is Lambert's.

I spent many a summer evening stuffing my face with refreshing indulgences from the menu at Lambert's. Sometimes with my parents. Sometimes with my friends and later with my girlfriend, then my wife (the same person!) and eventually our son. Lambert's was always packed. Granted, the place was tiny, but each summer evening, everyone — and I mean everyone — got a craving for ice cream at the exact same time. I believe that Lambert's was open earlier in the day and had an abbreviated menu featuring a few lunchtime staples like tuna salad sandwiches and BLTs, but it was the after dinner and late night crowds that flocked to Lambert's. The desire for a creamy, cold, chocolaty concoction hit everyone along the Atlantic City shoreline at the same time. Lambert's was there to make everyone happy... and boy! did they. Sure, there might be a short wait for a table, but the friendly staff of smiling young ladies and fellows were gently persuasive and didn't allow lingerers to monopolize a table for too long.

Not that one.

But, what about that Hot Fudge Mary Ann??? I'm getting to that! Listed among the ice cream parlor standards like fruit-covered sundaes, triple-thick hand-spun milkshakes and gooey marshmallow sauce dripping over massive scoops of any one of two dozen flavors of ice cream was the celebrated Hot Fudge Mary Ann. Despite its relatively simple components, I never saw it on the menu of another ice cream parlor — anywhere! Ever! And, believe me, I've been to a lot of ice cream parlors! This unique and delightful creation was comprised of a thick slice of pound cake that's toasted. Toasted! Then it's covered with three scoops of your choice of ice cream. Three the same, three different, two the same and one different — whatever! It's your choice. Then the whole shebang is covered — and I do mean covered! — with a generous serving of dense, viscous, delicious hot fudge. If you like, they'll even dust the top with a sprinkling of malt power! When this delectable assembly was deposited in front of you by the waitress as she placed your boothmate's selections in front of each of them, invariably someone (or everyone) would say, "Gee! That looks great! I should have gotten that!" In the case of Mrs. P and I, that never happened because we would both order a Hot Fudge Mary Ann!

Lambert's opened in 1930 and although they made it into the casino era, they didn't survive much past it. The property values in Atlantic City had skyrocketed and a big pile of cash sadly outweighed the appeal of a quaint relic from yesteryear.

What I can't understand is why no one has attempted to replicate the Lambert's Hot Fudge Mary Ann. How come no local restaurant — either in Philadelphia or in South Jersey — has added this fairly easy-to-make dessert to their menus? Not that I have any sort of experience or know-how in the restaurant/ice cream business — aside from the brief time I spent behind the counter of Philadelphia's legendary Hillary's Ice Cream, doling out perfectly conical 4 ounce scoops to drunken patrons on a summer Saturday night at 3 AM. Nevertheless, I'm pretty certain that pound cake is easily obtainable, as is ice cream and hot fudge. You can skip the malt powder, although it would be sorely missed as it completes the whole presentation. As a long time Hot Fudge Mary Ann aficionado and experienced eater of ice creams, I'd say the addition of this treat would cause waves of nostalgia among older (re: my age) patrons and internet buzz among their younger counterparts. Wise up local restaurants, there are plenty of people who still dream of the delights that Lambert's offered. I'm sure you can make a killing and probably overcharge for a recreating a memory.

Or maybe one of these days, on a trip to the supermarket, I'm gonna buy pound cake and ice cream and hot fudge and even malt powder. And when Mrs. Pincus says she wants a Hot Fudge Mary Ann... I'm gonna make one!

It hasn't happened yet.... but it might.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

root beer rag

One summer afternoon, we were participating in a blockwide yard sale. The rather quirky kid who lived across the street bounded over to our house and asked if we liked root beer floats. Apparently, he had just discovered the concoction. I, of course, beamed, explaining that I loved root beer floats, but I hadn't had one in quite some time. He offered to make root beer floats for Mrs Pincus and me, but he was just missing a few ingredients. He said he needed vanilla ice cream. And he needed some large glass mugs. Oh... and he had to get some root beer. He disappeared back to his house and we didn't see him for the rest of the day.

I love root beer. I always have. It was such a great alternative to Coca-Cola. With its distinctive sharp "bite" and its creamy, foamy head, it was unlike any other soda. And with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream plopped on top.... boy, oh boy... nothing could compare. Root beer floats were always a favorite of mine. Perhaps it was just me carrying on a Philadelphia tradition (the combination drink/dessert was invented right here in the City of Brotherly Love). Perhaps it was just that it tasted so good! Whatever the reason... I loved 'em.

I have been eating Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast nearly every morning of my adult life. However, I follow several "new product" accounts on Instagram to keep apprised of new cereals that may appear on grocery store shelves. Although I have no intention of buying any of these new flavors or flavor combinations of cereal or flavor variations of old favorites, I like to see what the test kitchens at Kellogg's or General Mills have up their sleeves. Banana Milkshake Frosted Flakes or Orange Creamsicle Cap'n Crunch are amusing in theory, but I don't think I would start my day with either one. Early this year, I saw that the popular Cinnamon Toast Crunch would soon assault the shelves of Walmart with an exclusive flavor. After such variations as Cinnamon Churro Crunch, Dulce de Leche Crunch and the holiday themed Sugar Cookie Crunch, the innovative folks at General Mills were introducing Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float for a limited run. I was intrigued... and, to my surprise.... I gave actual consideration to buying and trying it.

Last week, I popped into Walmart for a few needed grocery items — bread, ketchup, coffee creamer. I wandered down the cereal aisle. I casually surveyed the shelves, sort-of looking for Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I saw several unappealing variations of Cheerios, a mystery flavor of Cap'n Crunch, a Stranger Things themed box of cereal... but no Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. At least not yet. When I got to the end and turned towards the next aisle, I saw that the end cap was fully stocked with Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I looked... I considered... and I grabbed a box.

When I got home, started to put my purchases away in their designated areas of my kitchen. I put the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float in the cabinet with the other cereals. Seven year-old Josh would have ripped the lid off of that box and shoved a fistful of the new cereal into his mouth. But 64 year-old Josh is an adult with self control. My first taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float would wait until tomorrow morning and my regular breakfast time. I will admit, though... I was excited.

My alarm went off. I woke up and began to get ready for work. I washed, brushed my teeth and combed what little hair I have left on my head. I got dressed and descended the stairs to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast. I flicked on the Keuring and set a coffee mug beneath its spout. I set out a bowl (my special "milk splash" bowl for this auspicious occasion) and reached into the cereal cabinet for the star of this morning's breakfast show — my newly purchased box of  Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

I ran a finger under the top flap, breaking the glued seal. I gripped the top of the inner bag and gave it a pull to separate the factory crimp. I expected to be instantly hit with the unmistakable aroma of root beer and vanilla ice cream — or at the very least, a factory approximation of that familiar scent. Instead, there was... nothing. No real smell at all. I poured some cereal into the bowl. It looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch my son ate as a kid... which looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch I ate as a kid. I added some milk, grabbed my coffee and readied myself for my first (hopefully) tantalizing taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

Root beer floats have a very unique flavor. Sharp. Spicy. Creamy. Rich... all in an equal blend of those components that make a root beer float a root beer float. You know what Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float doesn't taste remotely like? A root beer float.

My first disappointing mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float exhibited none of the expected characteristics. Not a one. I shoved another spoonful into my mouth and assessed the flavor. I really concentrated on what I was tasting. A third serving really helped me come to a conclusion on the taste. It tasted like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Regular old Cinnamon Toast Crunch... with absolutely no aspect of root beer, vanilla ice cream or even a glass mug or paper straw. I tasted only cinnamon and it crunched.

I am almost finished the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I have had it for breakfast every morning starting with the day after I bought the box. I will continue to eat it every morning until the box is empty. I do not expect the flavor to change.

I look forward to eating Honey Nut Cheerios again. I know they won't try to deceive me.

FOOTNOTE: I bought a package of Maple French Toast bagels at Aldi. Guess what they don't taste anything like....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

batches & cookies

I like cookies. Come on.... who doesn't like cookies? They are the all-time favorite afterschool, watching TV, ruin your dinner snack. They are easy to bake at home. They are easier to buy and bring home. I remember my mom would bake cookies from a recipe... until she started buying those ready-made tubes of Toll House cookie dough. Eventually, she abandoned the whole "baking" idea and just bought cookies in a package. My brother and I were just as satisfied. We didn't care where our cookies came from. As long as there were cookies in the house.

I was always partial to a brand of cookies called Mr. Chips from a small commercial bakery called Burry. Burry supplied the Girls Scouts with their wares for their annual cookie drive until the company's Girl Scout cookie division was purchased by ABC Bakers in 1989. The remainder of the company's operations were bought by Sunshine Baking. In their heyday, Burry's made some great cookies — Fudge Town, Mr. Chips and Gauchos. They also made Scooter Pies — a large, single serving concoction comprised of two graham cookies sandwiching marshmallow filling and covered with chocolate. They were good, but we didn't have them often, Mr. Chips, however — those were always present in the Pincus household. Every so often, other cookies would make an appearance in our kitchen. My mom liked Nabisco's Oreos. She also like Fig Newtons, which I always questioned their inclusion in the cookie category. They were — as far as little Josh Pincus was concerned — fruit cakes. And they were filled with a fruit that old people ate. I would sometimes eat the cake outside and toss the innards when the cake was completely consumed. Fig Newtons had a pretty funny and memorable commercial in the 70s, featuring character actor James Harder singing and dancing dressed as a giant fig. I loved the commercial, but not enough to get me to eat a fig. As an adult, I have changed my mind.

Cookies that made it to my house were sometimes purchased by the pound at a local bakery. They were dry, crispy things covered with jimmies ("sprinkles" to those of you outside of the Philadelphia area), chocolate chips (with the chips just applied to the surface of the cookie, not integrated into the cookie itself, unlike normal cookies). Some were filled with some sort of viscous jelly made from an unidentifiable fruit. I avoided those until the more colorful ones were gone. Then, if I really wanted a cookie, I'd choke a jelly-filled one down with an extra large glass of milk.

Sometime in the 90s, places like Mrs. Field's and The Original Cookie Company started popping up in malls. Cookies — once purchased in a package containing several dozen or by the pound at a local mom-and-pop bakery — were now brazenly being offered for sale by the each. One cookie! You could buy one cookie! It was certainly larger than the cookies bought in packages at the supermarket, but it was just a cookie. Soon, these places offered large cookie sandwiches, somewhat along the lines of the Scooter Pie. Two three-inch chocolate chip cookies were stuck together with a generous mound of frosting between them. These sold for a dollar or more which, frankly at the time, was unheard of! A cookie for a dollar? Ridiculous!

Last Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I had dinner with my brother and my sister-in-law (His wife. Don't think anything weird is going on). The restaurant was in a shopping center filled with upscale, somewhat pretentious shops. One of those shops was a place called Dirty Dough, an unusual choice of name for a place that sells food. Dirty Dough offers a variety of "stuffed gourmet cookies." After a dinner that kept us late (we were talking about all sorts of things), we strolled over to Dirty Dough about fifteen minutes before they locked up for the night. The young lady behind the counter was informing the customer ahead of us of their limited offerings due to the late hour. We sort-of eavesdropped as she ran down the short list of available cookies, deciding that none of the flavor combinations appealed to us. We left, half-heartedly hoping to return in the future.

We headed to a Crumbl location we passed on our way to the restaurant. Crumbl is a trendy new chain of cookie bakeries with nearly a thousand locations across the United States and Canada. Crumbl is also open until midnight and we spotted a few folks we had just seen earlier at Dirty Dough. The Crumbl experience is an interesting one. Upon entry, no employee greets you. Instead, the front counter sports several iPads displaying an intuitive, interactive menu. One can scroll though the available cookies and make selection without a single word spoken to another human being. A team of employees can be seen busily working, scurrying around ovens, mixing dough, forming cookies — but not speaking to any customers until their pre-paid order is ready to be delivered across the counter. Mrs. P and I perused the evening's cookie selections. I settled on a traditional chocolate chip cookie and my wife opted for a frosted cookie of the sugar variety. We clicked our choices, sending little digital representations of the cookies into our virtual shopping cart. Our total was revealed and payment options were displayed. Our total, by the way, was ten dollars. TEN BUCKS! For two cookies! Cookies! Baked flour, water, sugar and such. I was paying ten dollars for two cookies. Granted they were above average-sized examples, but (and I'll do the math for you) they were five dollars apiece. FOR A COOKIE!

I swiped my credit card. Not happily, but I swiped it. A few minutes later, a young lady, handed us two small pink boxes emblazoned with the Crumbl logo. I was reminded of a scene from Quentin Tarantino's 1994 sprawling neo-noir crime epic Pulp Fiction. In the scene, dimwitted hitman Vincent Vega (as played by dimwitted actor John Travolta) is questioning his boss's wife's drink choice in a themed restaurant called Jack Rabbit Slim's. Mia (played to mysterious allure by Uma Thurman) had ordered a "five dollar milkshake." Vincent, cocked his head and asks for clarification on the beverage's contents and price.

"Did you just order a five-dollar shake?," he asks, "That's a shake? That's milk and ice cream?"

"Last I heard," Mia assures him

"That's five dollars?," he presses, "You don't put bourbon in it or nothin'?"

"No." she replies.

"Just checking.," Vincent adds.

When the drinks arrive, Vincent asks to sample the "five dollar shake" in question. Mia obliges, offering her straw and assuring her tablemate that she is free of "cooties." Vincent takes a healthy sip and then another. 

"Goddamn," a surprised Vincent reports, "that’s a pretty fucking good milkshake!"

"Told ya’.," Mia replies with a knowing confidence.

"Don’t know if it’s worth five dollars," Vincent concedes, "but it’s pretty fucking good."

I wish I could have had a similar exchange with the young lady behind the counter at Crumbl. However, I don't think she would have had the same appreciation and situational relevance from a quote from a thirty year-old movie as I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

once you get started

My first real job in the world of art was in the main office of a local chain of popular ice cream stores. Officially, I was the "art director." In reality, I was the entire art department. I sat in a little cluttered office, churning out ads and signs and displays — all without the aid of computers or the sophisticated printers I have used in more recent employment. After many months of service, I was rewarded with a token of thanks as the holiday season approached. No, it wasn't a bonus check or monetary compensation of any kind. It was big turkey made out of ice cream. The owner of the company was the slimiest, most conniving and deceitful person I had ever met. When he bestowed this misshapen frozen gift to me (with his nicotine-stained hands), it was as though he was handing me a gleaming gold brick — at least that was the impression I got from his wide, nicotine-stained smile.

So, I drove home with that frozen turkey replica on the front seat of my car and soon silently presented it to my wife of just over a year. She frowned. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and we had plans to celebrate the holiday at my in-law's house. My wife's parents keep a strictly Kosher home and — without going into the intricate edicts involved in the observance of kashrut — a meal that includes meat may not be capped off with anything that includes dairy. Period. 

Faced with several pounds of turkey-shaped ice cream and no where to pawn it off, the ever-resourceful Mrs. Pincus hatched a grand idea. ("Hatched!" Ha ha! Get it? — Uh... on with the story.) She decided to use her stellar baking skills to whip up a few supplementary additions to the frozen faux fowl. Then, we'd invite a few folks over to our tiny Northeast apartment to help us consume the whole shebang. This would all go down the night before Thanksgiving and after everyone had eaten dinner at their own homes.

And so, a tradition was born.

Our very first dessert party was an impromptu gathering of a dozen or so family and friends crammed into our narrow townhouse apartment on the night before Thanksgiving 1985. It has become an annual occurrence that has since blossomed into a warm and beloved (by most) affair — bringing together family, extended family,  friends and, in some cases, strangers. The venue has changed to our much larger suburban home, which is able to accommodate more guests more comfortably. But, we haven't missed a single one since that first one in '85.

Over the years, the guest list has expanded and evolved from family and friends to friends of our son to new-found friends, a changing parade of co-workers and — curiously — less family. Also the number of guests has increased considerably. One year, we had nearly 75 people jockeying for even a spot to stand in our living room and dining room. One of my favorite games to play every year is "Who is This in My House?" I like to quietly scan the crowd and pick out a person whom I have never seen in my life, standing in my house, happily shoving a piece of my wife's celebrated pecan pie into their smiling mouth. We have also had guests — unfamiliar with the houses on my street — wander into a neighbor's house, before realizing that they transposed some numbers in my address.

The menu has also evolved. I only worked for the ice cream company for a year, so I never got another frozen, year-end confection for free again. For a few years, we purchased an ice cream turkey elsewhere, until we realized that no-one was eating it and the widening chocolate puddle it was reduced to was spoiling the layout of the rest of the table. It was soon eliminated from the bill of fare. The real draw is my wife's baking, which has rightfully become the centerpiece of the evening. She spends a surprisingly little amount of time preparing an overflowing tableful of delicious bakery-quality treats for our eager guests. After an hours-long trip to the supermarket, where two full shopping carts is not unusual, Mrs. P knocks out dozens of perfectly baked goodies with the impeccable precision of a ballet company — usually in just one day. She has even experimented with recipes — adding new ones and tweaking tried-and-true favorites. While multiple items are in the oven, I have assisted (minimally) in decorating our home, transforming our everyday living space into a close approximation of a 1930s winter season cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Mrs. Pincus lays out the table, the utensils, the decorations — everything — while I stand idly by, like a lunk and marvel at her accomplishments. The evening truly belongs to her.

Of course, over a span of 35 years, we've had our share of mishaps. One year, with a kitchen counter covered with various ingredients and our then-infant son reclining in a baby seat, one of the cabinets just dislodged from the wall, sending its contents — coffee mugs and dishes — crashing into the sink and eventually the floor. Another time, I had assembled our newest addition — a real, two-tier chocolate fountain — incorrectly. When I turned it on, it spewed melted chocolate all over our kitchen like a delicious Mount Vesuvius.

Mrs. Pincus and I are the only two people that have attended the dessert party every  single year. Some longtime guests missed a few years here and there, due to illness, other logistic complications or, sadly, death. Others have been stricken from the guest list for one reason or another, replaced by new friends or newly born-family members. Our son missed the first few because he had not yet been born. But, he was not present at a few during his teenage years, as he attended a conflicting annual dance held by an organization of his contemporaries. A few days prior to last year's party, my brother noted that he had never missed a year. Sadly, due to an emergency within his family, he was forced to skip the 2019 gathering. 

Which brings us to 2020. Goddamn 2020.

Back in the spring, Mrs. P and I mulled over various scenarios that would enable us to continue a decades-long tradition in the time of a global pandemic. We optimistically envisioned this whole thing being over by September, leaving plenty of time to make arrangements in the same manner in which we were accustomed. But as summer became fall, it was clear that COVID-19 wasn't going anywhere and was determined to ruin our tradition. Mrs. P alternately cried and fumed. She was determined to have a "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party and inject a bit of normalcy into the near-chaos that this virus wreaked on our lives. The problem was that our house tends to get fairly crowded at the peak of the evening, with guests standing elbow-to-elbow not the least bit unusual. In the time of "social distancing," this was going to be tricky. Mrs. P proposed staggered admission, assigning small circles of guests different arrival times and asking them to leave after a pre-determined period to allow for the next group to safely enter. My wife's older brother (who has chosen to live outside of the day-to-day tedium of family concerns and remains a mysterious entity to even some of our close friends) volunteered to drive all the way in from his remote location to serve as a bouncer. He cheerfully offered to kick people out of our house who have overstayed their allotted timeslot. We passed on his gracious offer.

Together, my wife and I conceived a "Plan B." Taking a page from the current safety practices of the retail business, our "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party this year would be a curb-side pick-up version. It was ingenious, if I may compliment ourselves. We sent out electronic invitations including an option to select which type of pie you'd like — pecan or pumpkin. Mrs. P set out to compile a modified menu, featuring only items that would travel unscathed in a take-out container. Then, she bought takeout containers and autumn-themed carry bags. Our excitement grew as affirmative replies began to roll in. Mrs. P kept careful track of  who was coming and which pies they requested. She wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote the menu, refining it until she was satisfied with a good sampling of dessert favorites from past years' parties — sort of a dessert party greatest hits.

The replies we received energized Mrs. Pincus. A lot of the responses were accompanied by a heartfelt message of surprise and gratitude for keeping up a tradition in the midst of a discouraging global situation. On Tuesday, Mrs. Pincus did her usual phenomenal job of turning out hundreds of tempting little morsels from our kitchen's magical oven. Refrigerated items were refrigerated. Other items were left to cool in what looked like an abstract jigsaw puzzle on our dining room table. The morning of the "event," we turned into a two-person assembly line. We filled small take-out tins with pies. Then, we filled larger versions with an assortment of a variety of baked goods — each one slightly different in its contents but no less appetizing. Our dining room looked like the stock area of a commercial bakery with plastic-lidded tins piled in neat little stacks, ready to be distributed to the bags and delivered to its waiting recipient.

At 4 o'clock, the first guest pulled up. It was my father-in-law, who lives around the corner from us. Just like he was keeping a scheduled appointment for a curb-side pickup at a supermarket, he called my wife and explained that he was checking in for his order. We didn't consider creating an app for the evening's procedure, but we played along with my wife's father. Properly masked and insisting he remain in his car, Mrs. P opened the rear passenger door and placed the dessert-filled bag on the seat. My father-in-law waved as he pulled away. And this is how it went for the next three hours. At irregular intervals, friends and family, who otherwise would have gathered around our extended dining room table or clogged accessible walking space in our house, were now parallel parking at our driveway and trying to identify themselves from behind a cotton facemask through a rolled-down window in a car we didn't recognize. A few folks — who shall remain nameless — exited their cars to chat, seeing that no other guests were around. Mrs. P indulged these "violators" in conversation. I, however, was a little more forceful, as I attempted to direct them back into their cars, so as not to encourage others to react similarly. I was gently reprimanded for my actions. Overall, everything worked out smoothly and better than we could have imagined. Several curbside interactions resulted in a few tears shed, as my wife expressed her wholehearted gratitude. The whole experience was pretty emotional, if one were to dwell on it for a bit. The final guest to arrive was our neighbor from across the street who walked over in the dark, traversing our lawn approximately 90 minutes after I had shut off the porch light.

We were very satisfied with the entire evening. It could have been more fuel for the fire of disappointment that has burned through the past nine months. Instead it was a glimmer of hope for what lies ahead in the coming year. This time next year, I hope to be complaining about a house full of unruly people who don't know when it's time to leave.

And be thankful for them, Y'know....just like normal.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

something stupid

Philadelphia is famous for a lot of things. At the top of that list is, without a doubt, the Liberty Bell. Then there's.... um.... ah..... did I say the Liberty Bell already? Well, Philadelphia is also known for its indigenous foods, like cheese steaks, soft pretzels, hoagies and — the City of Brotherly Love's best kept secret — water ice (or as we enunciation-challenged Philadelphians pronounce it: "wooder ice").

This curiously-named hometown favorite, for those unfamiliar with the frozen concoction, falls somewhere between a sno-cone and a Slurpee. But not quite. It is usually eaten with a spoon, or as true Philadelphians know, a pretzel. Most of Philadelphia's numerous neighborhoods have a single-location vendor that sells water ice to its loyal citizens. Each neighborhood is fiercely proud, even snobbishly partial, to its own purveyor of the icy summer treat. While water ice (sometimes called "Italian ice," but never in Philadelphia) dates back to the nineteenth century, Bob Tumolo, a former firefighter opened up a small water ice stand called "Rita's" (named after his wife) in the Philadelphia suburb of Bensalem in the summer of 1984. Soon, his product's popularity allowed him to open three more locations and, eventually, he began franchising his business. Today, Bob's vision boasts over 600 locations, spreading the one-time Philadelphia exclusive to a nationwide audience. Despite its current corporate status, Rita's is still pretty popular among local residents. 

My wife numbers herself among those in Rita's customer base. A longtime water ice aficionado (and purist), she will only order "chocolate" when given the choices available on Rita's extensive menu, in spite of such tempting flavors as "tangerine," "kiwi strawberry" and "cotton candy." She subscribes to Rita's "special offers" via their smartphone app and receives coupons and discounts throughout the summer months. Recently, Mrs. P was emailed a coupon for a free regular-size water ice in celebration of... well, something like the first day of spring or the end of winter of some other made-up occasion. Bottom line: free water ice awaited. 

Simple enough.

We drove over to our neighborhood Rita's and I hopped out of the car with the printed coupon in my hand. I descended the few steps to the line of order windows and a smiling young lady appeared in one of the open frames.

"Hi!," she welcomed, "Can I help you?" Friendly enough. I presented my coupon and said, "I'd like a regular size chocolate with a lid on the cup, please." The coupon itself was short on words, just the necessary verbiage to instruct the employee that this piece of paper was to be exchanged for a regular-size water ice in a flavor of the customer's choosing. As a matter of fact, the phrase "Free Regular Ice" were the largest words on the thing, dwarfing the remaining line — "in the available flavor of your choice" — by several dozen point sizes. The counter girl read the coupon, smiled again and asked, "What size? Regular or large?"

I slowly replied, "Regular, please." I gestured towards the coupon in her hand. "I believe the coupon is good for a regular size." She looked at the coupon in her hand. "Oh. Right." She wandered off to the large freezer that houses the supply of water ice to fill my simple order.

Soon, she returned. She placed the chocolate ice-filled cup on the counter, its contents held neatly in place with a plastic lid snapped tightly to the waxed paper rim. "Would you like a lid?," the young lady asked. I looked at the lid firmly attached to the cup. She looked at the lid firmly attached to the cup. "Oh. Right.," she said, with no inflection, "I mean would you like a spoon?"

"No thank you." I said. I grabbed the frozen cup and headed for the car.

A week or so later, Mrs. P got another coupon for a free regular-sized water ice, this time for her birthday. We followed the exact same routine. When we arrived at Rita's, the same counter girl was waiting.

Lid? 

"Hi!," she welcomed, "Can I help you?" I presented my coupon and said, "I'd like a regular size chocolate with a lid on the cup, please." Just as she had asked before, she asked again: "What size? Regular or large?" I replied, just like I did before: "Regular, please." I gestured towards the coupon that I had just handed to her. "I believe the coupon is good for a regular size." She looked at the coupon, this one as simply worded as the previous one. "Oh. Right." She wandered off to fill my order. When she returned, the cup displayed a large, rounded mound of chocolate water ice rising nearly a full inch above the rim. The counter girl jammed a long, plastic spoon into the surface of the ice, sinking it deep into its cold center. The chances of getting my requested lid on this thing were slim. I didn't even bother to ask. "Would you like a spoon?," she asked before interrupting herself  with an "oh" when it registered in her brain that she had already provided a spoon. She offered a monotone "Thank you" and disappeared back into the employee work area. 

When I returned to the car, my wife was obviously about to ask about the lid. I stopped her with a stream of disgusted muttering under my breath. "No lid!," I spat, "A spoon that I didn't ask for, but no lid." Mrs. P laughed, shrugged her shoulders and took a big lick of water ice.

I guess that's the important part.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sunday morning coming down

The Jewish New Year is upon us again. In years past, this was a pretty big deal around the Pincus household. But, more recently, as my view of religion has waned, it has become just another day. My wife, however, still chooses to embrace the traditions in which she was raised and I fully support her wishes. 

As in past years, my in-laws are hosting dinner for the first evening of the holiday. (I'm not sure how many days this one rages on for. Two, maybe three days.) Right now, as I write this, Mrs. Pincus is busy in the kitchen, baking some of her specialty treats to serve at the meal's completion. In addition to Mrs. P's homemade baked goods, she likes to have another traditional holiday.. um... dessert gracing the table — the esteemed taiglach.

Taiglach is a collection of small balls of baked dough, sometimes called called mandlen*, boiled in a sweet honey syrup, then mixed with nuts and dried fruit. The mixture is either distributed into small paper cups or piled high into a vague pyramid and pulled apart with the fingers... those fingers then brazenly licked accordingly to remove any remaining remnant of honey. And it often looks like this...

Sort of appetizing, in a quaint, old-world, peasant kind of way. I tasted it once, many years ago, around the time I had my first introductions to a lot of Jewish traditions of which I was not previously aware. It was a strange mingling of flavors, some of which I could not quite place. It was not bad. It just wasn't good and I chose not to partake of any more. My wife and her father gobbled it up as though it was manna. Perhaps, to them, with their long association with the dessert, it was. Me, however... I took a pass.

This morning, when my wife woke up, she remembered that she did not purchase a taiglach for this year's dinner. In her opinion (which I would hotly contest), it would not be Rosh Hashana without a big ol' taiglach occupying a special place on my mother-in-law's linen-covered (then clear-plastic-covered) holiday table. Quickly, she called a bakery (yes, these things are purchased in a bakery) around the corner from our house to see if they still had taiglach left, what with the rush for holiday baked goods at hand. The good folks at the bakery said they were well stocked. Mrs. P asked if I would pop over (a little bakery humor there) and pick one up. I got dressed, pulled on a pair of shoes and hoofed it over the the bakery, which is within walking distance from our home.

Situated in a compact, basement-level space behind a strip of commercial properties, the bakery is accessible by a narrow set of stairs that can only accommodate one person at a time — either entering or exiting. I allowed two gentlemen gripping bags of bagels and a woman carrying some sort of dry-looking cake to pass before I descended the steps into the bakery. The lit glass display cases were full of beige and crumbly baked goods, none which appeared the least bit appealing. A display of plastic containers, not unlike a corner deli uses to package a pint of cole slaw, were stacked high atop tall refrigerated case. The containers were identified by a cardboard sign with a single word scrawled across it — "Taiglach." I examined the display more closely. These things didn't remotely resemble any of the taiglach I had seen in the past thirty years. They, in fact, looked more like the leftovers of a big serving of sweet and sour soup from a Chinese restaurant — dark brown, thick and packed with beans and other unidentifiable ingredients. I exited the bakery and called Mrs. Pincus.

"They have some stuff that they are calling taiglach," I began when she answered the phone, "but it doesn't look like any taiglach I've ever seen."

She asked me to describe it and I related its similarity to Asian soup. She laughed and asked me to buy it anyway. I said I would, with the caveat that when I get it home, she may not say, "What the hell is this?" when she sees it.

I went back into the bakery and made my purchase. I took the bag containing the possible taiglach from the bakery lady's hand and proceed home. When I got home and pulled it from the bag, Mrs. P didn't seem as upset or confused as I had been, considering it looked like this...

... not the symmetrical, gooey sculpture we were both used to.

It doesn't really matter. I have no plans to eat it anyway.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* no, not the musical instrument, the "soup nuts."

so pile on those mashed potatoes and an extra chicken wing

Did you ever walk into a restaurant for the very first time and think to yourself, "Well, I'll never be coming back to this place again."? We went out to dinner last night with some friends and that thought popped into my head as soon as I walked through the front door of the Hibachi Grill and Buffet.

I will be the first to admit that I have unusual eating preferences. I am a vegetarian. I have been for eight years. I do, however, eat fish. There are plenty of die-hard vegetarians that will tell you that, because I eat fish, I am not a true vegetarian. To them I say, "Fuck you, broccoli-lover." I am very particular about which types of fish I eat. I like salmon, flounder, tilapia and tuna. And that's about it. I don't like fishy fish. I also don't eat shellfish. Aside from the fact that I have observed the laws of kashrut (keeping kosher) for nearly thirty years, oysters and clams look like snot to me. Crabs and lobster seem to involve too much effort for a meal. I like to eat with a knife and fork. I don't care to have a hammer and nutcracker as dinnertime utensils. As a vegetarian, I don't eat a lot of vegetables. I like corn, potatoes, peas, carrots and the occasional asparagus stalk, but it pretty much ends there. To make up for it, I eat a lot of cookies salad.

Hibachi Grill and Buffet offers a small (as compared to the sumptuous spread available at most casinos) buffet. Several food service ares are set up in the center of a large room, the dimly-lit perimeter of which is sectioned off for seating. Among the predominantly Asian-centric fare was a selection of pork, beef and poultry. The seafood was mostly of the shell-dwelling variety.

An out-of place salad bar was my first stop. I piled an adequately-clean plate with chopped lettuce, shredded carrots and tiny croutons that would have passed for crumbs in a larger establishment. I added a ladle-full of bright orange French dressing from a small trough on the salad bar and headed to our table to begin my first course.

Finding enough to eat among the animal flesh would prove tricky. I located a mass of misshapen objects that had been breaded and deep fried beyond reasonable recognition.. An index card-size sign identified the morsels as fried flounder. I am used to seeing flounder as large, flat slabs. These things looked shriveled and scared. Making my way down the buffet, I spooned myself some fried potatoes, some vegetable lo mein and a few fried plantains. I topped the food mound off with a slice of heat-n-serve garlic bread. I looked down at my plate. Everything was the same color. It was beige. Very beige. And it looked like a four-year-old advised me on my choices. A cup of ketchup brightened things up.

Dessert, the best part of any meal, was next. The dessert station offered several unappetizing cakes, a large but untouched tray of dry-looking brownies and a larger tray of Pillsbury "Ready-to-Bake^®" sugar cookies boasting Hallowe'en designs. It is nearly Memorial Day. You do the math.

J-E-L-L-O!

As I considered my dessert options, something over by the cut-up fruit caught my eye. There were several large pans filled with neatly-cut squares of Jello^®. They were divided by color and/or flavor. Red. Orange. Green. And clear.

That's right. Clear. I stared at those cubes for a long time. I had no intention of eating that  Jello^®. Now, I consider myself fairly adventurous. I like roller coasters. I like scary movies. In my meat-eating, pre-kosher days, I even ate alligator and conch. But, I draw the line at see-thru dessert. I really just wanted to see someone else plop a big ol' spoonful of the colorless, jiggly blocks onto a plate. There were no takers. A few snickers and bewildered glances, but no brave souls stepped up to the gelatin plate.

I will never know the fate of the clear Jello^®. I made my first and last trip to Hibachi Grill and Buffet at the same time, killing two birds with one stone. I wonder if those two birds ended up on the buffet?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com