I Want a Banana Split for Supper

What a treat for a hot summer evening

Some years ago, I said to Diane that one evening for supper I wanted to have something I hadn’t had in years; a good old-fashioned banana split. That wish was nearly fulfilled a few days later on a hot summer day. I called from the office, “Tonight’s the night. The Banana Split! Let’s Go!” And off we went to The Newport Creamery. Notice I said nearly.

  If I had a healthy breakfast and lunch, judged by my standards, I figured I would be entitled to ice cream for supper. Why not? It would be a satisfying way to end my day. I might even consider it a balanced meal . . . to balance ice cream with bananas, fruit, nuts and chocolate. There might be protein in there, but I’d have to investigate.

  Maybe I had those days of my youth in mind when on many a summer evening, my parents drove us to Howard Johnsons. For more than ninety years, those iconic orange roofs were part of almost every landscape near and far, harboring happy memories of ice cream and birthday parties. The chain became known for its 28 flavors of thick, buttery ice cream. 28? I sampled only one; fudge ripple. By the 1960s, Howard Johnson's was the biggest restaurant chain in the world, with hundreds of locations across the continental United States.

  Anyway, back to my adult summer craving.

  It started with the ice cream man, but soon my tastes broadened over the years, from roadside Creamsicles, Hoodsies, and Drumsticks to sundaes and banana splits enjoyed first at the local pharmacy counter and later at The Creamery. So I had a banana split in mind this early evening. Ah, ice cream, the treat that hit many a pleasure button; creamy, smooth, almost luxurious.

  I could add cool and refreshing, but perhaps more important on this evening was that the banana split triggered feelings of nostalgia ( there it is again, never dead) and comfort.

  I wanted to “recommit to the split.” The familiar green and white sign of  The Newport Creamery beckoned. The waitresses were wearing matching green and white striped uniforms. The delightful sweet, creamy smell of ice cream with a background hint of waffle cone hit me as I opened the door. It reminded me of the ice cream parlor of my youth where I indulged many a cone.

  A counter seat it had to be. I slid onto the red stool, and with an urge to go three-sixty, I stopped myself and just swirled back and forth like the old days while I eagerly awaited the waitress. “Need a menu?”

  “No, thank you. I know what I want. A banana split. Vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream … pineapple, strawberry, and chocolate toppings …  whipped cream, walnuts and a maraschino cherry; the full boat, please.”

  Having come directly from the office, I was wearing a suit and tie and not exactly dressed for a banana split, though I wasn’t quite sure what proper banana split attire would be. Might it be the same as it was for the drink two, get one free Awful Awful . . . white tee shirt, khaki pants, Keds sneakers and a brown belt?

  “Here it comes.”  I sat up straight, plopped my elbows on the counter, bent my head and looked at it. The boat dish seemed smaller but so did everything else. Diane looked at the boat and then at me. Hand on chin, she paused, “Where are your bananas?” I looked deeper. There were no bananas! Where were they?

  This time I did the three sixty, stopped short, took a breath, tapped the spoon on the end of the dish, raised my hand and with a wide and brisk and hurried wave, summoned the coed. Bubbly, she loped to us with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.

  “Hi. Yeah. Sure. How can I help?”

  “Right. Yeah. Sure. How can you help?” My muscles tightened like a tick. “Uh, well,  I haven’t had a banana split in a long time. Uh, I’m sure there should be bananas in it. They still do that, right?” I looked away, shielding my glare. Diane gently grabbed my arm, suggesting that being older than six years of age, I should not make a scene. I squirmed, ready to raise my arms, rise and shout, “Where . . .  are . . .  my  . . . bananas!”

  “Oh, my goodness’” she blurted, smiling. “That’s the second time this week I forgot to put them in. Just a moment. I’ll get you some bananas.” She bolted away before I could speak and efficiently returned with a small dish of longitudinally sliced bananas. Who slices a banana longitudinally if it’s not in the split? My anger slipped to disappointment. I slumped on the stool. I could hardly turn it.

  Feeling sorry for myself, I calmed down and with hunched shoulders, proceeded to cut the bananas at right angles with my spoon and mix them into the ice creams; but it wasn’t the same. It could not be done. And, horror of horrors, a spit of chocolate flew into the air directly onto my paisley tie. You have to know me. I hate that. I smudged it with my too-thin paper napkin. I arose slowly, looked at the melting slurry, left some money on the counter, and turned away. I should have been happy because it was cool in the place.

  I shuffled to the door where I met an old friend sitting at the counter. “Like bananas, do you, Ed? I see you asked for more.”

  “Oh yeah. Bananas. Love ‘em”