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Pumpernickel
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The following is a remembrance by Earl Anderson of the walking community of Munger Place in the late forties including Munger Park, Blackies' Ice House, Mitzi, the bakery that is now the Garden Café and particularly his father's discriminating gourmet taste.
Pumpernickel
It was after World War II, probably about 1947. I had a bicycle, but didn't have a newspaper route yet. That bicycle was important, for lots of reasons, but one was that it carried me to and from an appointment with destiny-the bakery on Junius Street. You know, the bakery between Henderson and Augusta, right next to the ice house, and across from the park. The prettiest girl I had ever seen lived across the park from the bakery; Mitzi, I think her name was. Okay, I admit it. I know damn good and well it was Mitzi. But Mitzi isn't in this story, even if she was in my head at the time.
The story: About once a month, my daddy and his friend, Clarence, met at our house for "raw meat" and beer. Earlier on the (carefully) chosen day, they bought the best sirloin steak they could afford, took it home, trimmed the fat and ground the meat. First, of course, they opened a beer so they wouldn't be stressed during their work. To the meat, they added raw eggs, mustard, garlic, onions, horseradish-lots of horseradish-salt, pepper and who knows what else; eye of newt, for all I know.
After another beer to consider their (predetermined) options, they decided it was time. I was called "front and center," having been placed on standby a little earlier. A phone call determined the precise time of my departure-I was the all-important courier, you see. At zero hour, I was dispatched to the bakery. The timing of my arrival at the bakery was critical: such surgical precision insured my acquiring a loaf of pumpernickel as soon as it was taken from the oven and wrapped.
Returning home was equally stressful, and more physically demanding. Setting speed records pedaling the half block of Junius, turning left and passing Worth, Tremont and Victor Streets to Reiger, ignoring the stop sign at the corner, making a wide left turn at full speed onto Reiger and skidding to a stop at the foot of my porch steps, panting, I delivered the precious package of pumpernickel, still hot, to the waiting, well-oiled and salivating gentlemen at the kitchen table.
Instantly, they sprang into action, laying generous pads of garlic butter on thick slices of the hot, brown pumpernickel. Alternate slices of the bread-it was still hot enough to melt the butter-they covered with a thick layer of their savory sirloin manna.
That work apparently was very demanding, for they felt compelled to open another beer, sigh and gaze affectionately at their sandwiches for a few moments before the coup de grace, the "moment of truth."
Finally, the climactic moment arrived. Reverentially, each man lifted his sandwich, gazed once more at their masterworks, and bit. Closed eyes, ecstatic expressions, smiles and deep sighs followed as the culmination was reached.
It was a religious experience-mystical, spiritual, transcendental-to observe and participate in those proceedings. As a mere acolyte, however, I was only entitled to one bite and one sip of beer. My mother-sort of a "mother superior" in the realm-would allow no more.
The End
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