It Had to be Good! - Christmas at Famous-Barr 1929 - 6. VII. Week Two – Chapter 2: Smells Like a Rose

VII. Week Two –

Chapter 2: Smells Like a Rose

Bet's eyes drew to a tight close. She inhaled and waited for the last softly-sung word of 'you' to be complete. She blew with all her might, and immediately smelled incense-like smoke.

The troupe members of Doershunk-Martin, plus Glen Curtis and Lowell Fredricks, applauded for her.

"Finally legal," Dandiprat Dave joked, and the twins howled with good-natured laughter.

The girl opened her eyes. Before her smoldered the twenty-one holiday candles of her birthday cake, borrowed from the Christmas Tree Department downstairs.

They were standing around a card table, which had been quickly unfolded and set up in the center of the Throne Room. Everyone was in full makeup and costumes because Santaland was due to open in twenty minutes. Glen paused, handsome as ever in his Kringle garb – minus wig and beard – but with the coat collar open several buttons to reveal the white ribs of his undershirt. As Bettina picked up the knife to dish out the treat, she avoided dwelling on the attractive curl of blond chest hair peeking out from there.

"This cake looks delicious," she said, admiring the billows of snow-like frosting.

Lorna placed a hand on Lawrie's shoulder so he'd lean in. "It's a Lady Baltimore cake. I got it this morning from the bakery downstairs."

"In the store?"

"Yes. There's a full bakery in the basement!"

Bet cut the first slice and set it on a plate. Turning, she saw that initial portion somehow landed in Glen's hands. She smiled briefly, after he had said "Thank you, birthday girl."

She only barely noticed him walking away to eat it by his throne.

Bettina cut and served a second piece, then a third, and so on. The younger troupe members had their slice, and then Lorna and Alden. All the while, Bet's actions were hurried along by the increasing sounds of excited kids gathering on the other side of the doors to Santaland.

Singer stepped up with a large smile on his face. "Sounds like we're gonna have a big Saturday crowd!"

"Yes, Father. This day will just fly by!"

"Can't come soon enough either. Be sure to stop by and see Mrs. Dickhaus. Saturday means payday for the boys and Lorna."

"Don’t worry." She plopped a slice of the white cake, with some chopped walnut and fig filling spilling out, on a plate for him. "Lowell is taking me to lunch, then I'll pop upstairs to collect our salary."

Singer 'collected' the plate from his daughter's hand, and then drew her into a one-armed hug. "You're the best girl in the world. What would I do without you?"

Bettina pushed back a little, smiling but silent.

The clown cop started to eat, careful not to be sloppy with the frosting and disturb his makeup.

He leaned down and gestured mildly with his fork. "Lawrie is acting a bit 'off.' Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Bet paused; this way – knowing her father's way – the girl figured there was no question at all in his question, as the mere bringing up of the troupe's barker-in-training meant the boy had already played 'tattletale' on her.

She narrowed her gaze, lifted her brows, and showed Singer some of the whites of her eyes. "He's young, a hothead as well." Bettina could play at her father's game as well. "Perhaps he's too prone to imagining things that aren’t there."

Singer finished his cake and set his plate down. "Happy birthday, Bet – and, oh – be careful of that Glen. Just remember, he's an outsider; he's not one of us, and he may wind up breaking apart out little family. You don’t want that, do ya?"

The twenty-one-year-old closed her mouth, swallowed, and slowly shook her head.

Singer leaned in. He lightly kissed her forehead, crooning, "Good girl," before sauntering away.

Stunned and stymied, Bettina heard the sound of a fork clinking on a china plate to her right. She glanced; Lorna had already slid into position and was cutting the final two slices of cake. Her aunt picked up one portion before placing the plate in Bet's hands.

The older woman – wise, motherly and kind – assiduously avoided the issue at hand with happy chatter. "Bettina, I swear…even though my mother taught me never to do that…this store is some kind of miracle. I think you and me better take some time tomorrow, when it's closed, to look around. They've got chichi French fashion salons, and millinery shops on the 4^th floor. One gal who works here told me they've got $500 hats – "

"Lorna, will you keep an eye on Lawrie for me?"

Both women casually inspected where the former Minnesota farm boy in question stood and joked with the twins.

"Why?"

"He may have a thing against Glen."

"Only thing he may have is for you, Missy."

Bettina scoffed, staring her aunt in the eye. "Pshaw. Lawrie and me – we're like brother and sister!"

Lorna appeared dubious at Bet's reaction.

˚˚˚˚˚

Lowell peeked at his watch. He sat in the green room, on a chair near the center of the open area, and pulled out his notebook-sized sketchpad; his midmorning appointment was probably on his way.

Just as he settled the pad on his knee, Singer Martin came in and closed the door behind him. The troupe leader was in full clown-cop uniform, greasepaint and rouge. The only concession he made was to remove his oversized police cap, which he set on a dressing table before sitting down in the chair across from the adman.

"If you don’t mind," Lowell said, flipping open leaves of artist's paper to a clean page. "I'll be taking notes while we talk."

"No, I don’t mind."

But instead of starting a memo, Lowell's pencil made a broad arc. He captured the curve of Singer's recumbent posture as he took him in with short glimpses. He began to gradually fill in the details he read on the face of the man before him. "First of all, thank you for access to your troupe. I thought the initial interview should be with its leader."

Lowell's glance informed him he had successfully stroked Singer's ego; the other man instantly relaxed.

"Can we start with a bit about who you are; where you were born; raised; what your early life was like?"

"Sure," said Singer, folding his arms across his chest. "Born August, 1884. From Saint Paul, Minnesota. Working-class family. Stable, but Dad was a boozer who worked at Pillsbury A-Mill as a bagger." He suddenly scoffed. "Twenty-five years of bagging, till the end they had to roll him out on one of the old flour carts. See, his back was shot, and what can a man do who can't stand anymore, much lift fifty-pound bags of the white stuff? Nothin' – that's what. Nothing."

To Lowell's eyes, the forced jollity of Singer's clown makeup competed against the man's true intensity. It was all mounting up to a striking compare-and-contrast that the adman's pencil went about trying to capture with fidelity.

"I played baseball in school, and was good at it too. Got signed up nice and cozy by the local Double-A team as a pitcher and batter: 385 first season when I was nineteen, then, well – things went down hill. Remember what I said about my old man and the bottle? Well, same monkey climbed on my back.

"By the time I was Bettina's age, I was washed up. That's when I met Hans Doershunk – a German carnival man who hauled up in a field just outside of town for the summer. He saw something in me, and besides tossing me a nickel to sweep up, he started teaching me how to be a professional clown.

"When he yanked his tent stakes in October, I went along with him, leaving flour dust and Pillsbury Town behind me for Texas and the South West. We performed there all winter, and I suddenly was flush with cash for the first time – not that I saved any, mind you – what punk-faced kid does, huh?"

Lowell nodded his head.

Singer continued, shifting his weight on the chair and leaning elbows on his knees.

"By the time we rolled back into Minnesota the next spring, I found out my Pa died – "

Lowell's pencil halted; he glanced up. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's been a long time since we put him in the ground, but thank you." Singer sat back on his seat again and folded his arms. "Anyway, that was 1907, I was twenty-three, and – " He stopped abruptly.

"And…what?"

"And you're curious to know about Bet, aren’t you?"

"Oh yes, very much so. What happened in '07?"

Singer chuckled and pursed his lips in what appeared to Lowell like joyful regret.

"I met her mother. Hanzy decided we'd be on the move for that carnival season, and in a no-name town by the Wisconsin boarder, this beautiful girl showed up night after night.

"I'd rush back to my tent, slather on cold cream and towel off my pancake makeup as fast as I could. Stripping down to nothing but a sweater and my white clown trousers, I'd slip out beneath the strings of lights and look for the girl. One night, she let me find her. She said she knew exactly who I was; said my red sweater and white pants didn't fool her none, and soon we were in love."

Singer had to stop a moment.

Lowell halted sketching out of respect. "Are you all right?"

"What…?" Bettina's father shot his attention up as if just snapped back from the lure of the past. "Oh. I'm fine. Look, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression – Bet's mother was no floozy. She had dreams, she had spirit, and I loved her and wanted to marry her, even before we found out – you know."

"So where was Bet born?"

"Florida. Hans knew the situation, and even though she'd refused to go down to the courthouse with me to make it official, she went with the troupe and left her folks to have the baby in some privacy, you know.

"I thought she just needed time, and all…"

Lowell puzzled as the man again paused, almost in mid-thought. He asked a dreadful question. "Did she – did she die?"

"Bet's mother?" There was a blankness to his question.

Lowell nodded.

"No, no," Singer laughed. "She ain't dead, not as far as I know."

The adman thought he should not press for any more information on that front. He changed the subject. "And where is Mr. Doershunk now?"

"Hanzy is retired. See, after I had a baby girl to look after, Hans managed to kick that ape off my back for good with responsibility. He made me his partner, told me to keep a look out for new people to add – 'fresh blood,' as he called them – and expand the business. I did, and the old man had me buy him out in the winter of '23." Singer chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"Well, I say 'buy out,' but really I'm still paying off his fifty percent. See, every week I wire him some cash via Western Union so he can live it up with the bathing beauties and orange blossoms down in Alligator Land." Singer turned contemplative. "But, I don’t mind. Hans is a good man – he taught me how to be a better one too."

Lowell returned to sketching. He tried to sound casual, asking, "And this fresh blood, that included Lorna and Alden?"

"Alden, huh? You want to know how I met Alden, do you?"

Lowell glanced up; he was honest. "Yes, I do."

"Him and me make a good contrast. I am forty-five years now, and don’t know if you give much credence to this stuff or not, but since I was born in August, that makes me a lion. A Leo, you know. That's supposed to be a stubborn sign, a determined one that everything go my way, or else. And Alden, he's one of those water folks – an Aquarius – and he's a lot more 'take things as they come.' He's also more than ten years younger than me, so we got that contrast too."

"And how did you start working together?"

"It was Hans Doershunk. Another one of the strays he found, like me, only this time it was in Virginia. I think his pa was a tobacco farmer someplace, and somehow Hanzy fobbed this kid off on me, saying I was the only one he'd trust with Alden, 'cause he's – "

Singer stopped on a dime.

Lowell didn’t even look up from his sketching; he knew what the missing word was, knew that it started with a 'qu…' and knew Singer understood the term applied to the adman as well. "So, you two didn’t get along at first?"

"No. As a matter of fact, we didn't. But after a few times of him rushing in fist-first to my rescue from a bunch of local-town punks wanting to ride us carnies out on a rail, I figured what Alden and me had in common was a damn sight more important than the one thing we differed on."

Lowell looked up and smiled. "That's a fantastic answer."

Singer chuckled too. "Glad you like it. Truth is, with Bettina having a brain for the figures, and being able to keep us on track with jobs and such, and with Alden being both brain and spirit, The Doershunk-Martin Carnival Troupe is in a sweet position for years to come."

Lowell wasn't a hundred percent sure, but there might have been the slightest edge of a challenge to Singer's tone. Perhaps a warning was a better way to put it. The performer's disconcertingly jolly clown makeup seemed to fight with the coldness glinting from the man's eyes. Likewise, the very nature of Singer's emotions seemed to belie the 'take no guff' demeanor of his cop costume.

"But," Lowell asked hesitatingly. "Years to come might sound like a pipedream if the prophets of gloom and doom are correct. If the economic situation doesn't turn the corner by New Years."

Singer aped Lowell's tone: "By New Years…? Hell, by next week then. Look…" he continued in a more rational train of thought. "Truth is, people still go about their ordinary lives, wanting to believe the worst part has passed. And don’t they say belief is ninety-nine percent of 'faith?' So, if you ask me about the economy, I'd say there's no difference – make-believe is everything."

"Really, how so?"

"Look, I'm old enough to have seen plenty of bad times – '93 when I was a kid, '04 when I was just starting out, '15 when I had Bet to feed – they all sorted themselves out, didn’t they? Right now – and that's because the ordinary folks like me see what's going on – the worst has passed. Stocks have rebounded from the October fall, blue chips got snapped up, the mood is that by the start of 1930, the worst will be over. 'The corner will be turned,' as the president says on the radio, and I've voted Republican since Taft, so I trust him. He knows the score."

"You can't always hold onto the past, Singer."

"Well, with my line of work, we're a traveling family, and old times are something we hold onto with a vengeance. Don’t you doubt it."

Lowell started, "I – "

"I'm the optimist," Singer Martin announced proudly. "Hysterics never win, at least not in the long run they don’t."

˚˚˚˚˚

The light buzz of voices in conversation was pleasantly broken by a chord of music. The Famous-Barr Tea Room string quartet began playing a lively classical piece, and Bettina Martin smiled, despite her apprehension of 'not belonging here.'

She gripped the smaller-sized menu and admired the cover. A young woman in a raspberry-toned hoopskirt and floppy maid's cap of the 18^th Century raised a tray upon which was a piping-hot vessel of tea. Around her was a bold frame in black that somehow resembled a modernist's take on a Chippendale cabinet. The store's shield, wreath and eagle trademark nestled comfortably in the lower portion of the frame, while the outside margins of the indigo artist's board the menu cover was printed on came through. A light-blue silk cord brushed against the inside of her palm. This held the daily-printed bill of fare in place inside and ended in a pair of miniature tassels on the outside.[1]

She opened it up, spilling nervous glances at the penguin-suited waiters moving amongst the many potted palms and generously spaced tables. A Saturday crowd of country club ladies with their silks and Sunday-best furs mostly peopled this 8^th floor retreat of the weary wealthy.

"Thank you, Lowell, for doing this."

"It's my pleasure, Bettina. I feel it's the least I can do."

Bet scanned the food choices in wonder – and more importantly, their prices. Her sight grabbed onto something insignificant in the list of side dishes called 'Relishes,' and immediately, as a person's mind will do under stress, magnified this small detail to telltale proportions.

She leaned forward, feeling the fancy Carte press against her chest. She tried to regulate her tone. "Lowell, are you sure? They charge 25¢ for an… An order… Of celery. Twenty-five cents!"[2]

Lowell chuckled, but Bettina easily perceived the adman's mirth was not intended to slight the girl's intelligence or pride.

"Order anything you like, birthday girl. Even three rounds of celery if you like."

She sat back on her chair and let her own chortles bubble up. "I'll pass on that." She went to inspecting the selections with more seriousness, and heard her tummy rumble in time with the music. "What are you going to have?"

Lowell was lost in mild concentration on his own menu. "Why don’t we start with a salad, then get something more substantial to share."

That word 'substantial' drew Bettina's eyes like a magnet to the section headed:

CHAFING DISHES

– Time Required, 20 minutes for Table-Side Service –

Crabmeat a la Newburg……………………………….75

Lobster a la Newburg…………………………………85

Creamed Sweetbreads………………………………...75

Chicken a la King……………………………………..75

"OH…" Bettina muttered. "Chicken à la King."

"That's a good choice. And a salad?"

"Why don’t you pick, Lowell, since I seem to have selected the entrée."

"All right. Waldorf Salad… Or, Shrimp Cocktail…?"

Bettina shrunk a bit on her seat. To ask for Chicken à la King, AND Shrimp Cocktail would be too much, right…?

"Well," Lowell announced, apparently reading her like a book. "I'm peckish for shrimp, so what say you, birthday girl?"

Bettina attempted to hide her little-girl grin with a shrug. "I say, sounds good to me!"

As Lowell flagged down their waiter and ordered, Bet scanned the menu one last time, trying to put it all to memory. Besides the date printed on the bottom left – 'Saturday, December 7, 1929' – her twenty-first birthday, she also glimpsed the more pedestrian luncheon food she might normally limit herself to. 'Not today, tongue and pimento cheese open-faced sandwich; not today, deviled-eggs-filled tomatoes – tomorrow, maybe.'

She glanced up, still distracted in her comestible farewells. The officious server was extending a white-gloved hand, and the girl only grudgingly surrendered the Carte, with its little silk tassels tracing lastly across her grasp. He moved away after foisting a tepid, waiterly smile on her.

The girl bobbled her head a little towards her host. "I could get used to the high life, you know."

Lowell simply laughed and changed the subject. "The big twenty-one. So tell me, Miss Martin, what will the future hold in store for you?"

Bet knew she was taking the question more seriously than it was asked. She stiffened. "My father needs me. Until the time when he doesn’t – "

"I meant only to make you smile, Bettina. I guess I wondered if a little cottage for two were in your sights."

"It would be hard to give up the road – it's all I've ever known. And besides, who would anchor me to one spot, and who would fill out the double-billing of this cottage for two?"

"I don’t know, a certain blues-singing – "

She cut him off, brightly swinging the chatter back onto him. "How was your trade show? You never said."

"They're always the same, and they're fun in their way."

"Anything new?"

"Always. What's been interesting to watch over the last few seasons is how much variety has come into holiday lighting. And it's affordable now, what with dozens of manufacturers all putting out strings of lights for trees, electric wreaths – you know, they even make wreaths of automobiles."

"You don’t say?"

"Yes – plug it into the cigarette lighter, and presto – instant Holy Night splendor at 40 miles per hour."

"That's funny. Any sights there to inspire you with your campaign?"

Lowell was downcast. "I don’t know. No, not really."

"When is your awards banquet?"

"Next Tuesday night."

"Need a date?"

"You, Miss Martin?"

Bettina smiled; he had fallen into her trap. "Not me, silly. Alden." She delighted in seeing the jaded adman blush. "Now, go on. Ask him. I can assure you, he polishes up quite well, and Alden in his tux is a sight you simply must see."

"All right. Let me see what I can do."

"How are the interviews going?" Bet mercifully changed topics.

"Fine. Your father is a tough one, Bet."

"He's a pussycat, once you know how to stroke him the right way. And you, Lowell, anything from your deep, dark past you wish to share?"

"Ha. Hardly deep or dark. I'm a Georgia boy, went to art school in New York – "

"I mean, your affairs of the heart?"

"Oh. Well, I'm not attached, if that’s what you mean."

Bet could sense an expression growing on her face affirming the positive. "Any major heartbreaks?"

"Why, you little twenty-one-year-old busybody."

Bettina laughed. "I suppose you could call me that."

"Atlanta, like all major cities in the U.S.A., has a nice, quiet community for those in the life. I do step out occasionally, but as for 'the one,' I guess he's still out there."

"Maybe the problem is, he's not in Atlanta."

"Oh, yeah? And where would he be then?"

"I'd say he's in Saint Louis, at least until after Christmas, then he'll be in Florida, which happens to be right next to Georgia, doesn't it?"

Lowell laughed: "You're charming, Bettina Martin, very, very charming."

"I know…" she primped her curls with an open palm "…that's what all the fellas tell me."

A friendly hostess arrived with two glass salad plates. She set them down, and Bet noticed that on top of each was a small bowl of crushed ice. A dish of ruby-hued cocktail sauce crowned the center of the ice, while more than a dozen cooked, peeled and deveined prawns ringed the outside of the ice bowl.

"Shrimp cocktail," the waitress announced with a smile.

"Thank you!" Bet called out as the woman departed.

She was about to pick up one with her fingers, when Bet spied Lowell grabbing a funny-looking fork with three fat tines from the end of his line of silverware. He used it to skewer a pink-fleshed delicacy and run it briefly through the sauce. She imitated him, and soon was chewing on one of the great rarities of her culinary life – this was probably only the third helping of shellfish she's had in her young existence.

She loved the piquant bite of horseradish that ran jauntily through the tomato-based dressing. 'Yummy,' she thought.

Suddenly, she was thinking of Glen, although why, she didn’t know. Between prawns, she asked, "What do you think of Famous-Barr's Santa Claus?"

"That Glen is a natural. I don’t think I'd have that much patience with the little ones."

Bettina scoffed. "It's the parents you'd have to watch out for. But I know what you mean. Glen is great. He's got real talent too, and his stage show is unique."

"I caught his act at the Columbia the other night. I have to agree with you. That kid won't be on the circuit much longer – Hollywood will be calling."

As Bet chewed and savored the experience, she realized why Glen Curtis had popped into her mind – she wanted him to be sharing this meal too. She wanted him here with her; here and now. "I hope his dreams come true."

Bettina paused, fiddling with the corner of her napkin at her mouth. Her shy inspection informed her that Mr. Fredricks had caught her overly sincere tone.

"Anyway," she said brightly. "No luck on your campaign?"

Lowell blinked. "Well, I do think I have one idea, but – "

"Let's hear it."

"I was thinking, Coke, heat, winter – oranges. What if I do a series of ads based on migrant workers picking citrus in Florida; you know, for the winter months up North? Show them stopping for a Coke amongst the orange…blossoms…"

She fumbled awkwardly with her next shrimp. "Um – honest opinion?"

"Of course."

"It's good, but too brainy. What you need is a catchy 'Ah-Ha' moment to make people crave a glass of Coca-Cola right then and there."

Lowell sat back on his chair. "You're tight – I need a 'light bulb' moment. Besides, migrant workers in an ad would never fly in Atlanta. Miami, maybe, but not in 'The Athens of the South.'"

"Well, I don’t know about that. But it's true that what's good in one place is not good in another."

The adman brightened up; he went back to his shrimp cocktail. "Did I tell you I went to the same art school as Norman Rockwell?"

"The Saturday Evening Post artist? No."

"He graduated a few years ahead of me, but there's a story about him that I bet still's circulating there."

"Tell me."

"It seems in his first year, he's in this class and the teacher gives them the assignment of drawing a pirate. 'Make it so I can smell him,' the instructor says. Well, a few hours go by and the boy at the easel next to Norman wanders up to the front of the room to talk to their teacher.

"'Sir, I think you better see what Rockwell is doing.'

"'Why, is he drawing a pirate?'

"'Yes.'

"'And can you smell him?'

"'Oh yes, that's for sure – '

"'So then what's the problem, young man?'

"'Nothing, 'cept his pirate smells just like a rose.'

"Well, sure enough, the instructor goes over there, and ole Norman has drawn the most beautiful young man you can imagine, with ruby cheeks, a bandanna on his head, a gold loop in his ear, and even a rose clenched in his teeth."

"That sounds beautiful."

"It is. I've seen it, and it goes to prove that what's good as a pirate in New York – for us in the life, at least – is not good as a pirate in most other parts."

"That's funny." She chuckled to indicate she meant funny-funny, and not 'funny-odd.'

A squeaky cart began to be wheeled through the palm fronds and ladies' fur-draped shoulders. Envious looks trailed after its progress, and alighted on Bet as the waiter pulled up next to their table and stopped.

"Oh, this will be a process," Bettina told Lowell excitedly. She craned her neck and surveyed the top of the cart. Besides a towering silver chafing dish, with a fancy lid and an already-lit flame, there were several covered bowls, and a linen napkin hiding something tall like a metal rack.

Their conversation paused a moment while they watched the unemotional man with the gloves remove the chafing dish cover, and set it aside. In went a dash of butter and a nice portion of sliced mushrooms. He sautéed those, then Bet witnessed him pick up a small dish of bright-red slices of cooked bell peppers. In they went as she told her host, "Pimento."

Once the vegetables were suitably cooked, two portions of cooked and shredded chicken meat were added to the heat and tossed to blend with the other ingredients.

Now the dour man whipped off the napkin and Bettina saw she was right. Six toast points were still warm and toasty within the safe embrace of a silver rack. The waiter set out two fine china dishes that bore the identical FB shield logo as the menu cover, and arranged three toast points in the bottom of each dish. They formed a star pattern – ends touching in the center.

A sauceboat of rich, creamy goodness – flecked with minute dots of cayenne pepper – got poured into the sizzling pan and stirred around. Once it came to a simmer, a small glass of sherry was poured on top, and then those deft, be-gloved waiterly hands tipped the edge of the cooking vessel just right so that nothing spilled, but the vapor of fortified wine caught the kiss of fire and burst into open flame.

Oh's and Ah's swirled around them from the immediate vicinity, and Bettina Martin, birthday girl, felt like clapping, so she did. Lowell joined in with a smile, and then several nearby ladies accompanied them as well.

The accolades even managed to pry the hint of a self-made smirk from the man in the penguin suit.

After a quick taste for seasonings, the flame of the burner was extinguished with a tiny lid, and the rich Chicken à la King divided into equal portions over the toast points.

"Bon appétit," the waiter said as he placed the dishes before Bettina and Lowell.

He and the cart-squeak slowly disappeared back amongst the foliage and furs again.

"Oh, Lowell! This is so special – I'll always remember this."

"Well, Bet. It looks great, let's eat it too."

"Umm-hmm!" Bettina purred in agreement.

As she picked up her knife and fork to dig in, a notion struck Bet. "The eateries of this store run the whole gambit, don’t they?"

"What do you mean?" Lowell was already eating.

"I mean, here we are, up on the 8^th floor, in Tea Room luxury, while 9½ stories below, the Working Man is eating at the lunch counter – where we first met. But it's at the Soda Fountain on the 1^st floor where the ritzy and lowbrow mingle on the same level."

Lowell agreed with her by bobbing his fork in her direction. "I see what you mean. This Tea Room with its string quartet is in the clouds, the Lunch Counter is in the bargain basement, and the Soda Fountain is on the main floor where all are equalized."

"Yes, I guess the Soda Fountain is like this store overall – a great marble and bronze and stained glass Palace for the Everyman."

"You've hit on it, Bettina Martin. You've hit on it perfectly."