I was just Thinking: Yes, Even Milkshakes Were Better Back Then

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I make no secret of the fact that I enjoy going to yard or garage sales, even though I already have everything I need and don’t have room for anything else! Once in a while, I’ll see something that either calls out, or quietly suggests, “Buy me, buy me”.

It happened recently when I spied an immaculate shiny milkshake machine just waiting to be returned to active duty! The thought of slowly sampling a genuine malted milkshake from out of the past was all it took to accept ownership of the appliance and stop at the grocery store for vanilla ice cream and a container of malt.

Finding the ice cream was a snap. It was in the hunt for malt that things broke down. Three employees in one local supermarket assisted me in my search, but all were unsuccessful.  Oh, one of them did come up with a jar of malted milk (just add water).  But that was a far cry from what I wanted.  What I need, to re-capture some rapture from my youth, is someone who can assist in my quest for delicious perfection.

Several sources are listed online, but almost all of them are in Thurston County.  One listing was a chain store with a local outlet, but I’d already been there. I went back again and talked to an employee who pulled out one of those modern devices where one can find out about anything in the world but, contrary to expectation, he found no malt listed there, except for Malto Meal, again far from what I had in mind.

You and I can still order what’s called a “milkshake” in several local places but that stuff that comes out from a machine — already mixed — is an abomination to anyone who has sipped the real thing. If you’re old enough, you might even be able to remember ordering one while seated at the counter of a local drug store. In Tacoma, the place to do that was Hoveland Drugs on the southeast corner of Sixth Avenue and Proctor streets. It’s been gone for years.

Even better than resting on a stool at the counter was sitting in a booth across from a lovely young lady and slowly — very slowly — using two straws to sip what could be considered nectar from the gods.  If two foreheads should accidentally touch during the process, well, just consider that to be a bonus. Or is this just a fantasy from an old movie?

How can an old man recapture such moments without the malt to flavor the memory, even an imagined one?  Do I have to drive all the way to Thurston County to find a store that sells such delights? My life is seriously missing something since I bought that mixer. I imagine that it, too, is awaiting resumed action, like an old racehorse, eager to run at the sound of a gate opening.



I’m not saying anything against those who have known nothing better in their lifetime than frozen yogurt.  I assume there are those who could even develop a taste for it over time. But for those of us who have experienced the ultimate flavors in our youth, there is no comparison. 

Thinking about all of this is almost enough to make an old dreamer borrow a whole bunch of money to recreate that corner malt shop of his youth.  

Then I remind myself of an experience I’ve shared before. Sixty years ago, a partner and I opened the first pizza parlor in Wenatchee, long before most people in that part of the world had any idea of what a pizza was. It was not a success.

 

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Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.