When my grandfather invited me to go out to lunch, it wasn’t anyplace fancy, just the Booth Dairy a few blocks away. Booth’s was mostly a place to buy milk and ice cream, but they also had a little lunch counter where you could order sandwiches.
I ordered peanut butter and jelly and Grampa ordered ham on rye. While we waited for our food, Grampa drank coffee and I spun myself around on the chrome stool. If I pushed off with my feet, I could go really fast.
“Grandpa, you should try this!” I exclaimed. “It looks like fun,” he said, but he didn’t try it. The man behind the counter brought me a glass of white milk with chocolate syrup in the bottom and a long spoon. “Thought you might like to stir this up yourself,” he said. The sandwiches came on paper plates with potato chips. Grandpa got a pickle with his. The peanut butter and jelly tasted funny, not nearly as good as the ones I ate at home. “How’s your lunch, Scout?” Grandpa asked. “I really like the stir-up milk.” Booth’s Dairy wasn’t a fancy place, and the sandwiches weren’t very good. I don’t knowwhether my Grampa took me there a hundred times or only once, but I’ve remembered itforever, sitting at the counter together.