Memory Chips
On Thursday I had lunch with my brother at my favorite tapas restaurant, Jaleo -- a long-promised lunch in honor of his September (yes, September) birthday. He gave me something in honor of my September birthday: a can of Charles Chips potato chips.
When we were growing up in Silver Spring, Maryland, in the 1960s and '70s, a Charles Chips truck would come around -- I'm thinking every two weeks or so -- and we'd buy our supply of chips and pretzels for a family of six. They came in large yellow-and-brown speckled metal cans (well, large to an eight-year-old; I was surprised how small the nine-and-a-half-inch-tall can seemed when I got my present the other day -- I could swear it used to be larger). Inside were plain, waffled, or barbecue potato chips, or pretzels.
I remember the doorbell ringing, then someone calling out: "Charles Chips is here! Do we need chips?" (As I noted to my brother, the idea of "needing" chips -- like milk, another thing we used to have delivered, when I was very young -- seems quaint today.) Someone would run into the "utility room" and check to see how we were doing. There were usually a couple of cans perched on a ledge between the hot-water heater and the furnace. Whichever one or ones were empty, or close to it, would then be traded in.
The youngest of four, I used to be the family member with the memory for trivia. I still seem to be known for that, even though I can tell you my reputation far exceeds reality these days. As a case in point, an e-mail from my brother:
"Do you recall the sneaking? There was a no-chips rule, except with dinner or for certain special occasions. I, for one, vividly remember trying to get the metal lid off without squeaking and then to get the chips into my mouth without crunching so that someone wouldn't hear and tell on me. Many is the surreptitious chip (BBQ especially) I've eaten standing up in the corner of the utility room where the broom and the Charles Chips can were kept."
I did not recall the "ratting out," as he put it. Only now is the memory slowly, sketchily coming back. (I have more vivid memories of unauthorized TV viewing; my mother once hid the TV in a closet in a futile attempt to keep me from shooting up. Please, just a little Mike Douglas Show!)
After tasting the chips the other day, I had to agree with my brother that they're not quite the same. The taste -- very salty -- was close, but the "mouthfeel" was different: what else? -- not so greasy.
The Charles Chips truck stopped coming sometime when I was in high school, I would guess, maybe in the late '70s. Today I love Kettle Chips (have you tried the new Cheddar Beer flavor?) and Route 11. (As it happens, Jose Andres, owner and chef of Jaleo, where my brother and I had lunch, has a recipe in his new cookbook for Tortilla al estilo Route 11, or Route 11 potato chips omelet; I've made it, and it's really good!) About once a year I'll indulge in a guilty, trashy pleasure: Pringles.
All of these give me heartburn.
When we were growing up in Silver Spring, Maryland, in the 1960s and '70s, a Charles Chips truck would come around -- I'm thinking every two weeks or so -- and we'd buy our supply of chips and pretzels for a family of six. They came in large yellow-and-brown speckled metal cans (well, large to an eight-year-old; I was surprised how small the nine-and-a-half-inch-tall can seemed when I got my present the other day -- I could swear it used to be larger). Inside were plain, waffled, or barbecue potato chips, or pretzels.
I remember the doorbell ringing, then someone calling out: "Charles Chips is here! Do we need chips?" (As I noted to my brother, the idea of "needing" chips -- like milk, another thing we used to have delivered, when I was very young -- seems quaint today.) Someone would run into the "utility room" and check to see how we were doing. There were usually a couple of cans perched on a ledge between the hot-water heater and the furnace. Whichever one or ones were empty, or close to it, would then be traded in.
The youngest of four, I used to be the family member with the memory for trivia. I still seem to be known for that, even though I can tell you my reputation far exceeds reality these days. As a case in point, an e-mail from my brother:
"Do you recall the sneaking? There was a no-chips rule, except with dinner or for certain special occasions. I, for one, vividly remember trying to get the metal lid off without squeaking and then to get the chips into my mouth without crunching so that someone wouldn't hear and tell on me. Many is the surreptitious chip (BBQ especially) I've eaten standing up in the corner of the utility room where the broom and the Charles Chips can were kept."
I did not recall the "ratting out," as he put it. Only now is the memory slowly, sketchily coming back. (I have more vivid memories of unauthorized TV viewing; my mother once hid the TV in a closet in a futile attempt to keep me from shooting up. Please, just a little Mike Douglas Show!)
After tasting the chips the other day, I had to agree with my brother that they're not quite the same. The taste -- very salty -- was close, but the "mouthfeel" was different: what else? -- not so greasy.
The Charles Chips truck stopped coming sometime when I was in high school, I would guess, maybe in the late '70s. Today I love Kettle Chips (have you tried the new Cheddar Beer flavor?) and Route 11. (As it happens, Jose Andres, owner and chef of Jaleo, where my brother and I had lunch, has a recipe in his new cookbook for Tortilla al estilo Route 11, or Route 11 potato chips omelet; I've made it, and it's really good!) About once a year I'll indulge in a guilty, trashy pleasure: Pringles.
All of these give me heartburn.
posted by Billy at 12:00 PM
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