That was the first, and only clothing store I ever went to where you chose the material from rolls on a shelf and they made it measured to order ... and that was in Canarsie!!! (three exclamation marks). I know there is a word for "rolls of material" (and they weren't really rolls, but yards of material folded up). Alas, I can't think of the word; if I ever do, I hope I remember to change it here. Again on Avenue L, a few stores down the avenue (between 91 and 92) was the sloppiest candy store I had ever seen; I rarely saw any customers in that store. I don't know how they managed it but their sons (I think they had three) all grew up to be doctors; life has its mysteries.

Directly across Avenue L was Gabe's candy store; this Gabe must have been loaded in that I later found out that he owned much of the commercial real estate on that avenue. This was when a candy store also had a soda fountain, where one would go spinning on the chrome and naugahyde stools (artificial leather made of vinyl-coated fabric), when a sundae was called a frappe, and fruit roll-ups were called shoe leather. And the candy store was where the famous "two cents plain" was sold (means just seltzer), or the delicious egg cream. I'd say egg creams were "de rigueur" (that's not the way I talk; it's a fancy expression and I've seen it used). For the young'ns, it means "required by the current fashion or custom; socially obligatory, something you have to do" ... in this case, drink. If Brooklyn were a nation, the egg cream would probably be the national drink.

Here is the recipe for this national drink. To be authentic, this sweet chocolate soda fountain treat should be served in a 12-ounce Coca Cola bell shaped glass. The first ingredient is approximately 2 ounces of milk, followed adding seltzer while stirring vigorously, thus creating a white foamy head. Then add Fox's U-Bet Chocolate syrup while continuing to stir. There you have it, a simple, refreshingly delicious fountain delight, and it contains not one egg.

Next to Gabe's candy store was Harry's shoe store; that's where my parents bought my shoes. It was a small store but probably did very well as they eventually rented (or bought) the store next to them to double their size. One block along Avenue L was the Canarsie Theater; I'll talk more about that later on except that it was small as theaters go but strangely enough, it now became a triplex. Go figure, as the saying goes, "Will miracles never cease?"

Reinhardt's, originally next to the southeast corner on 94th street (that's before they added to corner store as a restaurant) was an excellent bakery. I wish bakeries had that quality around now. The only place I know of that quality is Leon's on Knapp Street; their "black forest" cake is out of this world; eating enough of that with all its calories and we're all out of this world.

Then there was Bender's grocery store, Bohacks (that was a biggie for the time), and many others. I won't list all the stores along that wonderful street we called "The L" but let then enjoy their rightful place in my memory bank. Isn't that a big part of life, accumulating vivid memories? I'm happy and grateful to have them. Some memories might even be painful but would you have it any other way?

I had a friend, Arnie, who lived in East Flatbush, on Rutland Road between Kingston and Albany Avenues. He told the story of a candy store owned by two refugees, Morris and Max, who were in concentration camps during the war (as Archie Bunker would say, "the big one"). Well, Arnie got off on the wrong foot with these guys when they opened for the first day under their management. It was hot steamy day and the place was filled with kids checking out the new owners (this was a big deal back then). He orders his traditional ice cream cone from one partner's wife who was working on opening day. She hands him an ice cream cone with one scoop, and he quickly replies "Hey, the other guy used to give 2 scoops" ... of course he didn't but he wanted to see if he could get away with it. The wife not being too familiar with "store policy" proceeds to add an additional scoop to the cone, when all of a sudden her husband Max yells out, "Ve only give von scoop on a cone" and Max then calls Arnie a "gangster" for that move he made to get an extra scoop. He called him a gangster for quite some time. As the years passed they became friendly and Arnie realized how hard those two worked to make the American dream come true. My hat is off to Morris and Max, wherever you guys are, and hope that American dream did come true for you.

This was also the time when you were able to buy a delicious malted and it was served with a glass and the same metal container that it was mixed in. And lucky me; there was always a little more than one glass in that container (today they call that little extra a "lagniappe" kinda brings the customers back; only good business people know that). Somehow at home, when the machines were available to everybody, the malteds were never as delicious. Where in this new age can this heavenly drink be obtained? Another drink popular in Brooklyn was the lime rickey and the cherry coke; they were good but not my favorite. My preference went to root beer or sarsaparilla, maybe cream; of course, celery soda was best with delicatessen as any Brooklynite would know.

Just learned something interesting: A lagniappe is a small gift presented by a storeowner to a customer with the customer's purchase. It derives from New World Spanish la ñapa, "the gift," and perhaps ultimately from Quechua yapay, "to give more." The word then came into the rich Creole dialect mixture of New Orleans and there acquired a French spelling. It is still used chiefly in southern Louisiana to denote a little bonus that a friendly shopkeeper might add to a purchase. By extension, it may mean "an extra or unexpected gift or benefit."

Back to Max (I never ever called him that; unthinkable); he had little to do with me. He was always busy playing Pinochle with his friends, and I'd say most of the time they played "partners," leading to some vociferous arguments. He once locked me in the bathroom in that busy basement where they lived. Who knows, maybe he lost an argument and took it out on me, I'll never know. To me it's all funny now. By the way, grandma/grandpa owned the house on East 93rd Street, between Avenues J and K; they slept in the first floor front rooms and did the real living in that basement.

Max would often send me to Harry's candy store around the corner (Avenue K and East 94th Street) to buy those small brown cigarettes, called "Between the Acts" I thank my cousin, Sandra for the correction; (I originally wrote "Ax") seems she did some shopping for him also. I smile now thinking of Harry; he was the biggest man I ever saw. We used to wonder (as kids would wonder) how he fit on a toilet seat. He walked sideways behind the counter in his store. Kids think physical and have to be taught to see people in terms of character and in matters that really count.

These friends of my grandfather were all from the block (that's the street we lived on). They were Mr. Dubrow, Mr. Lurie, Mr. Rosenthal (he was the first to die in that group), and one more who didn't live on the block, a Mr. Umansky (we all called him Mr. U; he was really the employer of my aunt Anne. Anne was married to my mother's brother Jack, and lived on the first floor. Anne was Mr. Umansky's bookkeeper). The family relationships here are very intertwined; cousin Sandra tells me that Mr. Dubrow was a cousin to her maternal grandfather, Izzy Zitofsky. To think that all these years and I never knew this (a whisper to Sandra: to think that all these years and it never mattered). Writing about Izzy Zitofsky's family would take another dozen pages; I don't dare as that family was large enough (and close to each other, by the way) to populate any small town in this country.

An interesting aside here shows how naive I was. This Mr. Dubrow had a jewelry business, and I once asked my mother how much he earned in a year. I'm not sure she really knew (it was way out of our league) but she said $10,000 a year, and I said I'd be happy to earn $100 a week for the rest of my life. I never knew anything about economics.

Mr. Lurie always had a box of cough drops with him; he treated it like candy. I think I picked up that habit from him and still enjoy munching on a box of Luden's Original Menthol to this day. It used to be Smith Brothers licorice I don't know if they are still around. Mr. Umansky was a cut above the rest; well educated for that group and a good man. He was a retired civil engineer, knew the pinochle game (what Jewish man didn't), and also knew how to play chess. That's the game I got interested in when I was 9 years old, and I still have that same chess set I used then in an old cheese box (cheese was kept in the grocery store then in small wooden boxes 7" by 4.5" by 3.75". The box is still crayon colored in a blue and red checkerboard pattern wrapped all around the box; for a youngster that age, it was a job well done. And I played and enjoyed many chess games with Mr. Umansky.

Maternal grandma Lena must have been the real brain of the family. She's the one who had the foresight to buy that house when it was new around 1920 and all members finally benefited from. She worked in the garment center section of the city (that's between 35th and 40th Streets and 7th Avenue of Manhattan; one might note that today, this in no way has the importance that it had in those days). She was a shop forelady; must have had some real organizational (or working with people) skills. She came from a large family that was always visiting. Large meals were served in the main part of that basement, and some of my taste buds were developed there.

And those delicious meals were made in a kitchen that would be called primitive according to today's standards. A gas stove (maybe there was a pilot light, maybe not; I don't remember), a sink with a washtub next to it (that corrugated looking scrub board couldn't be too far away), and in the back room was a coal burning stove that heated the house (the coal bin was next to it with a window facing the driveway where the coal was delivered and sent down to the coal bin on a chute). Also off the kitchen was the bathroom, all tiled, with the usual conveniences except that it also had a stall shower with a shower curtain enclosure. Looking back I'd say that shower was the only modern looking convenience in the whole house. The real antique was the icebox with that pan under it.

A word about that coal burning stove in the back of the basement; if I recall correctly, that part of the basement was called the cellar. Getting heat and hot water was no easy matter then. After the coal was delivered and stored in the coal bin, every once in awhile, coal would have to be shoveled into the furnace (today we have oil burners and gas burners; then it was called the furnace). This shoveling was all done by hand; nothing was automatic then. That was the way water in the "boiler" was heated so that steam could be delivered to the radiators on the floors above and hot water could be delivered to the kitchen and bathroom sinks and tubs. I remember the furnace had a water gauge on it to show the amount of water in it; something one always had to keep one's eye on or (well, I hate to think of the "or").

Ice was delivered each day (maybe every two days; I don't recall) and it was delivered all year round. During the summer that ice truck was a treat to the kids waiting outside. As soon as he picked up that block of ice with those prongs an disappeared into some house, we went for the chips of ice left on the truck. This was not without some danger as there were usually some sharp metal edges on that truck; but "danger" was never in the vocabulary of children. Grandma did have some modern conveniences: a ironing board sorta built into the wall, and a sewing machine. A closet with all the cleaning supplies was in the corner, and next to it was a cupboard with the dishes enclosed by glass-partitioned doors. That's what I remember about grandma's kitchen, that and all the delicious food that came out of it.