The Mug Came Out Frosted and Hooked Onto the Window |
A tray on the car door, a glass mug so cold it hurt your teeth, and a whole evening spent sitting in a parked car with the family. |
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News for the America we remember |
The mug is what everybody remembers first, and it should be, because it was the whole thing. Heavy glass. Genuinely heavy, the kind of weight a kid has to respect with two hands. And frosted, straight out of a freezer somewhere in the back, so cold that when the root beer went in, the frost turned wet and the outside of the glass fogged and your fingers stuck a little when you picked it up. |
That was a hot Tuesday night in July, in a parked car, at the A&W out on the highway. We did not go out to eat. That needs saying, because people now cannot picture what a rare thing it was. My mother cooked, every night, and the idea of paying somebody else to make supper was for birthdays and long trips and the one night a month my father said we were going, and the house turned into a logistics operation around it. |
You pulled into a slot under the awning and rolled the window down and there was the menu board with the little speaker, or at some places a girl came right out to you. Car hops. She leaned in the window with a pad. My father ordered for everybody, out of order, from memory, and got it right. Then you waited, and waiting was part of it. Windows down. Radio low. My mother with her arm out the window. The sound of other families in other cars, doors opening, somebody's baby fussing two slots over. |
When it came, it came on a metal tray that hooked onto the top of the car door, and the whole car became a table. Burgers in wax paper. Fries in a paper sleeve. Coney dogs for whoever wanted them. And the mugs, always the mugs, frosted and full and set carefully so they would not tip when somebody shifted in the seat. We ate in the car with the radio on and no one had anywhere else to be. My father would put his seat back. My mother would hand napkins over the seat without looking. My little sister would get root beer on her chin and refuse the napkin until it was too late. You have to understand that at home, dinner was at the table and you sat up straight and you asked to be excused. In the car, none of that applied. You could put your feet up on the hump. You could talk with your mouth full. You could watch the other cars pull in and try to guess what they were going to |
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