For most of my dad’s young
life, he lived above and worked at Felcher’s, his parents’ candy store/
neighborhood lunch counter, tucked between P and G's Bar and Grill and
Simpson's Hardware Store on Amsterdam Avenue between 73 and 74th
Streets. Christopher Morely, imagined the man of the future while
watching my dad as a tiny boy play in front of that store and
immortalized him in his novel Kitty Foyle.
Throughout college and law school my dad scooped ice cream and served meals at this lunch counter, as his then girlfriend, my mother, perched herself on a stool out front, eating fudgicles and enticing much of the passing parade, including Frank Gifford and his pals, the other NY Giants. I can still see the scoop my father kept from Felcher’s with its well-worn wooden handle and the scored thumb press that pushed a slim metal band, which would release the perfect scoop every time.
Sometimes there are things in this life that you have to eat no matter what the consequences. You have to block out the nasty knowledge you have about fat and heart disease and go back to your childhood,
where, in my case, you could find print ads with doctors endorsing
cigarettes. Holy Smokes!
She leans in toward me, her elbows on the counter. She is tall, blonde, and very slender. She’s wearing a tight black skirt and a white blouse open one button just past modest. A maid’s apron circles her waist. She begins to speak but I raise my hand and gesture for her to wait. I am listening to the teenage girl with the long legs and short shorts standing to the blonde’s left. She is a regular but, tonight, she wants more than usual.