Bridgeport , Chicago 1977
Summers meant one thing as a kid, no school for three months, except for the chumps that had to go to summer school. As kids we would head out after breakfast, usually chased out by our moms, who often told me to “get out of here go play outside like regular kids”. I still don’t know what that was supposed to mean. But we would meet up at somebody’s house, try to come up with some sort of activity to kill time, sometimes this meant hide and seek but within a square block, swimming in somebody’s above ground pool where the chlorine would turn your eyes red and change your hair color. Wiffle ball was a favorite, you didn’t need a glove, or a real bat, and we could usually pitch in and buy a Wiffle ball set at the drugstore. Sometimes it meant just walking around the neighborhood, finding a stoop to sit on and doing nothing but talking about our lame brothers and sisters, TV shows ( Starsky & Hutch was a favorite), Mad magazine, or movies we wanted to see (Star Wars or Smokey and the Bandit). Often we would sit on my friend’s cement steps outside his brick three flat, having heated debates about whether Starskey’s Gran Turino was cooler than the Batmobile. ( Of course the Gran Turino is cooler).
There was a general store on 27th and Lowe which was literally right next door to my friends place, my brother told me the owner was in the mob at one time, which not one of my friends believed but turned out to be true. He often mumbled to himself as he chomped on a cheap cigar, we couldn’t understand a word. He also rarely used the cash register, instead adding up your items with a pencil and a pad of paper, something I never questioned it as a kid, later my father told me it was to avoid paying sales tax. We often would stop for penny candy, which as a child should have been labeled kiddie speed. The owner would snap open a paper bag and you could pick any of the seemingly endless varieties of sweet sugary snacks that were guaranteed to send an 11 year old into sugar rush heaven. Chewy Swedish fish that got stuck in your teeth forever, milk chocolate coins, Herseys kisses, miniature three musketeers bars, wax lips, wax “bottles”of neon colored sugar water (for real), Tootsie Rolls, candy buttons ( I never really understood these, they were just little sweet dots on paper that you pulled of and threw in your mouth), there were so many kinds of candy we often drove the owner crazy, pointing and yelling at the wall of candy behind the counter. It cost one dollar and we would share it, which drove him nuts trying to hear all of us shouting our sugary demands. No wonder he was crabby all the time.
Once the bag of sweet sugariness was in our hands we would bolt outside and run down the uneven pavement proclaiming our love of sugar to the blue summer sky. We exulted in the rush of unbridled energy bestowed upon us by the penny candy gods. There were times the sugar rush was too intense and I felt my head was going to pop off my body. Excitedly talking about our soon to be adventures, we had decided to wander over to “the other side”. This was the area on the other side of the viaduct, separating Armor Square from the rest of Bridgeport, but to us it was as exotic as another country, which we felt it was sometimes. There was also a record factory near 26th and Shields. We would wonder over and check the dumpsters behind the factory for disposed records, always finding so many we would gleefuly grab dozens and fling them against the walls watching them break into hundreds of pieces. Sometimes I would look at the labels, never really recognizing any of the bands or artists. I do recall seeing Perry Como a few times and having no clue who he was until asking my mother, she told me but 11 year old me was very unimpressed.
After our acts of rampant record destruction, we were often starving, but going home was either out of the question, or we just couldn’t wait. Since we weren’t burdened with much money, we had to find ways to feed ourselves that were somewhat frugal in nature. My brother had mentioned to me the week before that Ricobene’s had an off menu item, ingenously called “a special”. It was day old Italian bread dipped in beef jus. That’s it, just day old bread dunked in beef jus and sold like that. It was 30 cents so the price was right for thrifty 11 year olds. If you got with fries the combo was 75 cents, which we would get sometimes and split the fries.
The walk up window at Ricobene’s around lunchtime was usually crowded with all sorts of people. You had business types from the Loop with their JC Penny suits that ate breaded steak sandwiches with their ties flipped over their shoulders, truckers leaning on their rigs eating pizza slices and constructions workers still wearing hard hats scarfing down meatballs sandwiches and chasing them with beer wrapped in paper bags,dribbling red sauce over the sidewalk. Dried oregano and garlic permeated the muggy summer air, as well as hot cooking grease, a simmering pot of red sauce was usually going all day on some burner, and the intense tomato paste smell hit you as you peered into the walk up window, hoping to catch someone’s attention. Steve Miller was singing Fly Like an Eagle while white tshirt wearing cooks wrapped hot dripping sandwiches in butcher paper, trying hard to keep up with the lunch rush, occasionally wiping their hands on their aprons, sanitation be damned.
When one of the cooks finally acknowledges us, we shout for three “specials” , he winks and flips his tongs around , grabs some bread out of a large wrinkled paper bag under the counter and flips open the lid on a small steam table setup near the cash register. He lobs the crusty rolls in the steaming hot beef jus, pushes them deep inside with his tongs, brings them up, let’s the excess drip for a bit, and hurriedly throws them in butcher paper, wrapping them fast because people are walking up, trying to get his attention, or there are cries of people already served for more napkins or a side of spicy giardinaira.
Some days we would jump on our bikes and speed home to eat on our cement front steps, but today we’re famished. We consume our beef flavored bread right there, ripping open the paper and digging in, keeping it well in front of us so we don’t get au jus on our clothes, our moms protests still in our minds. My 11 year old palate can’t tell the difference between fresh made au jus or one that came from a can, or mix, or plastic container, and to be honest it doesn’t matter, it’s delicious. The stale bread still has some chew to it but the jus packs it with beefy salty goodness, some of which drips down my chin, dropping to the hot summer sidewalk beneath me. A satisfied smile erupts from our young faces as we laugh and giggle our approval. I can see that I spilled some on my shirt and know my mom is going to be upset but that’s okay, I’m ready for our next adventure. Hotel California comes on the radio as we toss our paper wrappers in the trash can, free throw style, and head down 26th street, singing made up lyrics because we don’t really understand what Don Henley is saying. Giggling and laughing our way down 26th street we cross the viaduct and head back home.
